


Gravity Sings

by MachaSWicket



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 04:05:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 74,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1674074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  Logan’s back from deployment, Veronica's back to working cases, and they're back to figuring out how to make their relationship work, this time as adults with demanding jobs. But when their new normal is disrupted by an unusual missing persons case, Veronica is reminded yet again that nothing ever comes easy in Neptune -- and even with the help of Mac, Keith, and Weevil, solving this case may come at too high a cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS: To **katelinnea** and **ghostcat3000** for massively awesome beta work on this monster. Seriously, I would have stopped writing without their insightful feedback and suggestions. Many, many thanks to **positivethinkingforlosers** , **hollye83** , and **wholegrainlofat** for reading drafts and snippets; and listening to me ramble; and providing valuable information and feedback. You guys are all awesome. :)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine, but I’m pretty sure Rob Thomas wouldn’t mind me playing in his sandbox for a little while. Epigram is from Ani DiFranco’s “Hour Follows Hour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thanks to [lilamadison11](http://lilamadison11.tumblr.com/) for the beautiful art!

 

 

 

& & &

we make our own gravity to give weight to things  
then things fall and they break and gravity sings  
we can only hold so much is what I figure  
try to keep our eye on the big picture, picture keeps getting bigger

& & &

 

“This is weird,” Veronica decided, leaning back against the car door, her hands smoothing down Logan’s uniform carefully. They were parked near the air strip at the Naval Air Station, his rucksack leaning against the wheel well beside them. “I always figured I would be Rosie-the-Riveter-ing it up in a bomb factory if I ever sent my man off to war.”

Logan gave her an amused look. “Please, you’d be halfway to occupied France by now with a hidden spy camera and a really bad French accent.” He was standing close, his hands clasped together at the small of her back.

“Hmm,” she considered, paying extra attention to his sleeve, since it really deserved to be flat against his bicep, “you’re probably right. I don’t like being left at the homestead.” She trailed her fingers along his arm, just because.

“The homestead, huh?” Logan grinned down at her, easing her closer so he could drop a kiss to her lips. “Good thing this war’s only scheduled for two weeks, then. Surely you can keep the home fires burning that long.”

His actual deployments were an exercise in patience and Skyping, but a two-week war games assignment in Nevada? She could probably handle that. Maybe. As it turned out, living with Logan -- _being_ with Logan -- it was different from what she had expected during the early, heady days of finding each other again. They’d been so volatile as teenagers that some small, stubborn part of her had dreaded them flaming out again. 

But now that they’d each wrestled the worst of their demons to a draw, their relationship just… worked. It presented its challenges, of course, but it was both exciting and familiar at the same time, like a pretty major piece of her life had snapped back into place.

And when they were apart, she missed him like crazy. But this was the life she chose, and the life she wanted, so she mustered a smile for him. “Rustle up some chocolate and silk stockings, and I’ll see what I can do about those home fires.”

Logan lifted his eyebrows and smirked. “If you’ll _wear_ said silk stockings, I will happily procure them.”

Veronica gave him a disaffected shrug, the effect of which was probably offset by the way she was holding onto him so tightly. “Gotta come back to me before I’ll put ‘em on.”

“Me coming back, that’s the deal,” Logan answered, watching her carefully.

She knew he was about to pull away from her, to _leave_ again, and she resisted the urge to wrap herself around him and protest. Instead, she leaned up and kissed him softly. “Love you,” she murmured.

His eyes were sparkling when she pulled back. Logan had always been more free and open with his emotions -- careless, even -- but he understood these days that the words were hard for her sometimes. And he clearly savored them even more when she offered them first. “Love you, too,” he answered, trailing his fingers along her jawbone. He stepped back, reaching down for his bag. “See you when I’m back.”

Veronica grinned. “Yeah,” she answered breezily. “See ya.”

He laughed as he walked away, half-turning once to offer her a jaunty wave.

Veronica couldn’t make herself get back in the car until he was out of sight. Reluctantly, she slid into the driver’s seat, ignoring the tightness in her chest. It was irrational -- he’d be back in two weeks, and being invited to participate in the Air Force’s international war games exercise was a pretty big honor. Yet more proof that Logan was a talented pilot, despite his strange tendency to downplay his military accomplishments.

Her phone buzzed before she even had the car in first gear. _Wonder if there are conjugal visits during war games. Bet Nevada’s lovely this time of year._

 _If only it were occupied France instead of the high desert_. she responded. 

_High maintenance_ , he answered promptly.

Veronica texted him a picture of the BMW logo on his car’s steering wheel without further commentary. Because she was the one who’d had to talk him out of a five-bedroom beachfront home in favor of a -- yes, penthouse -- condo at The Pinnacle, a new, secure, luxury building downtown. “High maintenance, my ass,” she muttered, without any actual malice. 

Goddamn, she already missed him. 

As she turned left off of the Naval base, her phone rang. Her father’s name flashed on the display, and Veronica answered. “Hi, Dad.” 

“Hey, honey. Did you see Logan off?”

“Yup,” she answered, her voice almost rock steady. Almost.

“Dinner tonight?” he offered.

Aww, he wanted to cheer her up since her man was gone. Which was pretty sweet. Her father had pretty much done a 180 on Logan in the last year. Which was understandable, considering his long-held distrust for Logan was based almost entirely on the angry nineteen-year-old version. It had actually taken her father longer to accept Veronica’s decision to sit for the California bar and regain her PI license than to accept Veronica-and-Logan. Keith had been more than a little taken aback at the speed with which Veronica and Logan had moved from estranged to _together_ , but he’d kept any doubts to himself. “Sure,” Veronica agreed. “Mama Leone’s?”

“Sounds good.”

Veronica knew from his tone of voice that he hadn’t just called about dinner. “And?” she prompted, smiling at the road even though he couldn’t see her.

”And I was hoping you’d have the bandwidth for a rather delicate missing persons case,” he said. “Will you be back in town before 3?” They still just called it Mars Investigations, and Veronica worked mostly traditional PI cases, with the rare legal case on behalf of their clients. The occasional lawyering didn’t add much to their bottom line, since their clientele was almost always from their own _have-nots_ side of the train tracks, but it kept her legal skills... well, if not sharp, then perhaps less dull than they otherwise would be.

She glanced at the bridge, which looked reasonably busy for the time of day. “I think so.”  

They said their goodbyes and she ended the call. Veronica was curious about the case, of course, but the sight of fighter planes taking off from the Naval base distracted her, and she pulled into a random parking lot to watch until they were tiny grey dots on the horizon.

& & &

The man waiting in the office when Veronica arrived was roughly her age, tall, a little soft around the midsection, but handsome, with dark wavy hair and deep brown eyes. He was seated on the couch, wearing jeans and a simple t-shirt, a lightweight hoodie crumpled into a pile beside him. 

Behind the desk on the other side of the small room sat Mac, who glanced up from her monitor and waved a clementine slice in Veronica’s general direction. “Hey.”

“Hi, Mac,” Veronica greeted her friend, glancing at the clock on the wall and then turning to the visitor, who stood as she approached. “I’m sorry I’m a little late.” She offered her hand. “Veronica Mars.”

“Hi, Berto Rodriguez.” He shook her hand. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“Of course.” Veronica glanced at Mac, who was frowning at one of her ridiculously oversized monitors, absently pulling apart the clementine resting on a small plate next to the keyboard. “Mac, is he--?”

“Out,” Mac answered without even glancing up. “Something about lockpicks, maybe?”

“Okay, then.” Veronica ushered Mr. Rodriguez into the inner office. “Please, have a seat.” Once they were settled on opposite sides of the desk, she said, “I’m afraid Mr. Mars didn’t tell me much about your case -- what can we help you with, Mr. Rodriguez?”

“Please, call me Berto,” he corrected with a half-smile, his accent slight and suggestive of a bilingual childhood. “Mr. Rodriguez is my father.”

“Berto,” she echoed with a nod, studying him as he looked down at his hands, apparently struggling with how to start. He was clearly a painter, given the rainbow of splatters and spots on his jeans and work boots. His t-shirt was unblemished, but his hoodie looked to have some telltale splatter as well. Veronica resisted the urge to tap her pen on the desktop, since her father always told her honey catches more flies than visible impatience. “I understand you’re looking for someone?” she prompted.

“Yes, my-- my sister,” he answered, fumbling in his pocket for a moment, then placing a small picture on the desk. “Please -- help me find Sonia.”

“Okay,” Veronica said, sliding the picture closer. Sonia was younger than Berto, probably early twenties, and pretty, with wide, expressive brown eyes and something almost sad about her smile. She was standing with Berto in front of a brick building, his arm slung around her shoulders, a beer dangling from his hand. 

“When was the last time you saw Sonia?” Veronica asked. Berto looked away, his expression pained. “Berto? I’m sorry if this is difficult, but I need to figure out the best way to start looking for her.”

Berto nodded, looking down at his hands for a moment before meeting her gaze with sad eyes. “Almost six months ago. In Ceres.”

“Ceres?” Veronica repeated. She’d never heard of it, but assumed it was in California since Berto hadn’t said otherwise.

“Yes, near Modesto.”

Modesto was definitely in California, but Veronica was a bit hazy on its precise location. Somewhere east of Stanford and the Bay Area, but she hadn’t done much exploring past San Jose. “What happened the last time you saw her? What did she say?”

He grimaced, a flash of frustration there and then gone. “She said she was going to visit a friend for the weekend, in Sacramento.”

Veronica tried to cover her surprise. “And she just… didn’t come back?”

Berto nodded, his hands tangled in the hoodie crumpled on his lap.

Veronica absorbed the information, reassessing the case. Because if Wallace left town for a weekend and just never came back, she would have torn down the world by Thursday morning. Sonia Rodriguez had disappeared almost six months ago, and Berto was hiring her _now_?

Berto was watching her reaction closely, his expression guarded. “Sonia can be…” he hesitated. “Irresponsible. She drinks.”

“Ah,” Veronica said, ruthlessly ignoring the hit of recognition his words conjured up.

He nodded. “I thought she was just being Sonia at first, that she’d show back up and apologize and try to make me forgive her for her actions.”

“Okay.” Veronica considered that bit of information. “But she didn’t call this time? Or answer your calls?”

“She loses her phone sometimes. Especially when she’s drinking.” 

He sounded a little defensive, and Veronica schooled her features back into mild interest instead of the skepticism that had apparently been shining through. “So you think she might’ve left to go -- what? On a bender?”

“I don’t know,” Berto answered, his voice tinged with sadness and something like frustration. “I mean, I thought that originally. She’s disappeared before, stopped answering her phone.” He shrugged. “But I always find her. I asked around, and when I could afford it, I took the bus to Sacramento to talk to Dahlia myself.”

“Dahlia’s the friend she was visiting?” Veronica guessed, taking notes.

“Yes.”

His tone of voice had shifted, turned harder somehow, and Veronica looked up. “You don’t like Dahlia?”

Berto’s mouth tightened. “She’s a bad influence.”

Interesting. “And what did Dahlia say this time?”

Berto shrugged helplessly. “She was gone. They both were.”

Veronica scanned her notes, and then asked, “So if this wasn’t just some fun adventure away from big brother like she’s had before, do you have any idea why she would have left Ceres this time?”

The question seemed to throw Berto for a moment. “I think maybe she wanted a better life,” he answered slowly. “We were struggling, she complained a lot -- she had trouble keeping a job.” He gave an embarrassed shrug. “The drinking. But I always took care of her.”

“Okay.” Veronica took notes as she went through some basic questions about schooling, about prior jobs, about their family, but he seemed uncomfortable, offering just one- or two-word answers. She placed the pen down and folded her hands together. “Berto, I can’t help you if you’re not truthful with me.” He nodded, but didn’t speak. Veronica sighed. “I’m willing to help you try to find your sister, but whatever you’re not telling me--”

“We’re here illegally,” Berto interrupted, watching her closely for a reaction to the news.

Veronica dipped her chin. “Ah.” That would explain his reticence. “Okay.” She didn’t have a lot of experience with illegal immigration, and wasn’t exactly sure what the appropriate reaction was -- or the appropriate follow up questions. 

To be honest, she wasn’t even sure whether helping Berto find Sonia would be entirely legal. Ethically, Veronica was comfortable helping a brother locate his missing sister, but law school had a way of making you paranoid about every little action, because even the unintended fallout could affect your future. Her foray into Ruby Jetson’s apartment notwithstanding, Veronica was trying very hard to stay in bounds these days.

“Yes.” Berto shifted in his seat, seemingly nervous. “Our parents came here when we were very small, but we were born in El Salvador. I don’t remember anything about Santa Lucia, but...” he shrugged.

“But you don’t have citizenship here, either.” Apparently, this was what her father had been alluding to when he said it was a delicate case, and probably the cause of Berto’s unease. Veronica knew a lot of cities in California had so-called sanctuary laws in place, which meant the police wouldn’t inquire into a person’s immigration status while investigating unrelated crimes -- or missing persons. In reality, though, this theoretical don’t ask/don’t tell policy didn’t matter much to undocumented immigrants who were taught to fear the police -- and with good reason.

She wondered how much courage it had taken Berto to ask anyone at all for help.

Veronica reviewed the questions she’d been asking in light of this new information. “So no government-issued ID,” she surmised, realizing her go-to first steps on any missing persons case weren’t going to do very much to help her find Sonia Rodriguez. “Could Sonia be going by a different name? Using someone else’s papers or anything like that?”

“Maybe.” Berto nodded. “I think she may be living with her aunt. But,” he shrugged, “it’s hard without papers. Lot of moving around. Easy to lose people.”

Veronica wrote “ _her_ aunt” on her notepad, but didn’t comment on the strange attribution. “Aunt’s name?”

“Estefania Orellana. I think she used to live in Long Beach, but I couldn’t find her, either.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, blinking rapidly against the tears welling in his eyes. “Please, I haven’t seen Sonia in so long, and that’s why I came down here.”

“To Neptune?” Veronica asked. Something wasn’t sitting entirely right with her, but she couldn’t pinpoint it. “There are probably private investigators in Long Beach.”

“Yes, but there was work here,” Berto explained. “I don’t have a car, so I can’t afford to go looking for her myself. But I came south from Ceres to find Sonia.” His voice broke on her name.

Veronica nodded, adding to her notes. “Has Sonia ever been arrested?”

“No,” Berto answered. “Neither of us.”

So basically no government records of any kind. Good, then. Nothing like a challenge to keep Veronica’s mind otherwise occupied while Logan was off playing war games. “Okay, Berto. Could you write the names of any of her friends you can think of, anyone she might have gone to for help?” 

He nodded, accepting the pen and paper, jotting down a series of names, plus a phone number. “That’s all I have,” he said apologetically. 

She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Veronica skimmed the information. “I’ll start with this.”

Berto smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Mars.” 

Startled, Veronica shook her head. “Oh, no -- Keith Mars is my _dad_ , not--”

“Oh, sorry.” Berto flushed a bit, and offered her a rueful smile. “I just assumed. I mean, you’re so--”  

“Yeah, no. That’s -- it’s fine.” She stood and offered her hand.

Berto rose and picked up his hoodie. “Please let me know how it goes,” he said, shaking her hand, firm and decisive.

“Of course,” Veronica said, and watched him leave, her curiosity piqued. Where had Sonia Rodriguez gone, and why hadn’t she contacted her big brother? What kind of trouble could she have gotten into?

& & &

The comfort food at Mama Leone’s was kind of magical. Veronica felt stuffed with carb-tastic pizza, and warm and happy talking to her dad. Logan’s absence was still palpable, pressing against her ribcage, but it was a manageable ache, at least for the moment.

“So, honey,” her dad said, and Veronica’s focus sharpened. Apparently he’d had ulterior motives for this dinner date. “Do you have a couple free hours this Saturday?”

Veronica lifted her palms and shrugged. “I mean, I _guess_ Mac and I can push the desert raver back a day.”

He rolled his eyes, but otherwise ignored her joke. “I’ve got a couple new places I’d like to look at, and I could use another opinion,” he explained, his tone carefully neutral.

Veronica blinked, putting her last piece of pizza back down. “New places? A new -- house?”

“Yeah.” He took a sip of his soda. “The rental house is great, but it’s a bit much for just me.”

Veronica studied him for a moment, evaluating what he _wasn’t_ saying. And then she got it -- they weren’t bringing in that much more than he had been before her abrupt return, and Veronica had actually _tripled_ the Mars Investigations payroll by effectively hiring herself and then bringing on Mac. She’d done her best to minimize her own salary, but the federal government was surprisingly insistent upon graduated students paying their student loans every month. “Oh, Dad, no. I’m sorry -- we can figure out the money stuff--”

“It’s not about money, Veronica.” His expression tightened. “I don’t need that much space.”

Okay, she’d be willing to buy that it wasn’t _just_ about the money, but she wasn’t convinced he was telling her the whole truth, either. “I don’t understand.”

He took another bite of pizza. She waited impatiently, knowing he was playing for time. “You’re here,” he said, finally. “I don’t need a guest room if my only guest lives in the same city.”

Oh. Well… that made sense. And she supposed it meant he really _had_ come to terms with the idea of her being here for the foreseeable future. Of course-- “That’s a study, Dad. The house isn’t crazy big or--”

“It’s still a little much these days,” he interrupted, using his _conversation over, because I’m the dad, that’s why_ tone. Which hadn’t worked on her since she was maybe seven years old. 

Veronica wondered if part of his concern was upkeep. The worst of his injuries had healed over time, but there were aftereffects. She knew he had lingering pain in his hip, and these days he got headaches whenever he was tired. But she’d learned her own stubborn independence from him, and considering she’d absolutely refused Logan’s suggestions that they get a maid service at their place, she knew better than to broach that topic with her father.

Plus, between the two of them, they couldn’t really afford hired help. Same as it ever was.

Veronica chose to let sleeping dogs lie, at least for the time being, and nodded. “Where are you thinking of moving? Beachside condo?”

Her dad laughed. “You know me, never more comfortable than in swim trunks.”

“Dad.” Veronica wrinkled her nose. “Come on.” She wiped her hands on her napkin and pushed her plate away. “Sure, I’ll help you--” She broke off when her phone buzzed in her pocket, pulling it out to check the display. She gave her dad an apologetic look. “It’s Logan, or I wouldn’t--”

“Take it,” her dad said, waving off her concern.

Veronica stood and moved towards the door, accepting the call. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Logan answered, and all of that _missing him_ that she’d managed to tamp down over dinner flared right back up again. “So,” he continued, “it turns out the military takes its war games pretty seriously.”

Veronica smiled, leaning against the rough brick exterior of the building. “That _is_ surprising. They’re usually such a cavalier bunch.”

He chuckled. “So, good or bad news first?”

“Bad,” she answered immediately, turning away from a small family as they neared the entrance to Mama Leone’s.

“Of course,” Logan responded, amused. She’d always been the just-rip-the-damn-band-aid-off-already type. “Well, to imitate real-world wartime conditions, we’re going radio silent to the outside world for the duration.”

Veronica’s mood fell. She wondered if six months with semi-regular multimodal communication would turn out to be less frustrating than two weeks of total deprivation. “Oh.” She traced nonsense letters on the bricks, eased her fingertip along the scratchy surface of the grout.

“Yeah,” he said, and she could hear the disappointment in his voice, too. “Sorry.”

“Stupid Navy,” she said. “Wait, are they listening? Hi, Navy!”

“I don’t think the NSA plays well with others, so you’re probably fine. Though this decision is squarely on the Air Force.” Logan paused. “On the other hand,” he continued, his voice suffused with amusement, “the Air Force clearly got wind of my misspent youth and has assigned me to the red team.”

“You’re a commie?” Veronica shot back. “I wouldn’t have guessed your Marxist leanings from your amassed wealth and privilege.”

“Smartass,” he answered, and she knew he was smiling. “And not specifically Russian or anything, just representing foreign enemy MIGs during the dogfights.” He sounded almost gleeful when he added, “I get to go up against the F-22.”

“Which is _totally_ badass,” Veronica surmised. If she didn’t persuade him she remembered enough about the F-22, he’d spend precious conversational time describing its aerodynamic capabilities to her. As it turned out, Logan was kind of a geek about airplanes. It would be endearing if it didn’t mean long, romantic conversations about ailerons and thrust capacity.

“I’ll spare you the details,” Logan said, his tone warm. “Look, I hate to do this, but--”

“You have to go,” Veronica interrupted, because it was easier, somehow, if she was the one who said it. “Okay. Well, happy hunting, Comrade.”

Veronica hung up, studying his picture on her phone until it timed out. She took a breath, pushed away from the wall, and headed back into the restaurant.

& & &

On the plus side, trying to distract yourself from missing your boyfriend makes it really easy to throw yourself into a puzzling missing persons search, Veronica thought, taking another sip of wine and wriggling further into the warm, leathery embrace of the couch. 

Two days in, and Mac and Veronica had been unable to unearth a single trace of Sonia Rodriguez, or her aunt, or her friend Dahlia. Veronica supposed the lack of progress wasn’t _that_ surprising, considering the circumstances. All she knew of Sonia Rodriguez other than her name and age was that she loved gardening, she’d always wanted a kitten, she’d had jobs off and on at various dry cleaners in and around Modesto, and her parents had both passed away when she was a teenager. 

Not exactly the kind of information that would lead Veronica unerringly to a kitten-filled garden hideaway.

It was too late to still be in the office -- particularly on a Friday night -- but here they were anyway. “The hardest thing of all is to find a black cat in a dark room, especially if there _is_ no cat,” Veronica muttered.

Mac tilted her head to see Veronica past the monitors. “What are you on about?”

“Sorry.” Veronica grimaced. “You know Logan’s aphorisms. Seemed appropriate.”

“Uh-huh,” Mac said.

“I think that’s Confucius,” Veronica added, even though Mac was no longer paying attention.

Behind her wall of monitors, Mac was -- well, Veronica wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing, but it was complex, something about self-executing scripts and backdoors. And still, when Mac typed in the last few items and hit enter, she watched the screen for a moment, then visibly deflated. 

“Nope,” she said, way too apologetically for someone not at all at fault, “nothing here, either.”

Not surprising, since they were searching databases fed mostly by government data for information on someone who meticulously avoided any contact with the government. But it was still frustrating.

“Well, I mean, obviously there are people with these names, or variations on these names,” Mac added, “but the rest of the context is off.” Mac shrugged. “Unless she’s _actually_ a 58-year-old registered Republican voter in Miami.”

“Who’s a registered Republican?” Wallace asked, as he appeared in the doorway. From his loose t-shirt and jeans, Veronica knew he’d hit the gym after school. Which meant he was probably _starving_ , and would hustle them out of here pretty quickly. 

“Wallace!” Veronica greeted. She lifted the nearly empty bottle of wine in his direction. “Join us! We could use a fresh set of eyes.”

“On a Republican?” Wallace shot back, skeptical. He dropped onto the couch, rubbing his quad carefully with one hand. “No, thanks.”

“You okay?” Veronica asked.

“Yeah, just tweaked a muscle,” he answered.

“Uh, Veronica?” Mac interrupted, tilting at an acute angle in order to see them both clearly around her monitors. “A fresh set of eyes on _what_? We’ve got bupkis.”

“Bupkis?” Veronica repeated, laughing. She adopted her favorite screwball comedy rapid-fire delivery, “Say, now, wait one minute -- we got zilch, zip, diddly-squat. Why, I oughta--”

“Settle down, Bogey,” Wallace interrupted, bemused. “What’re you working on?”

“Bogey?” Veronica scoffed, though she thought maybe she should slow down on the wine for the moment. “That was _clearly_ Katharine Hepburn.”

“We’re trying to find a missing person,” Mac explained, ignoring Veronica’s antics. “but she’s an illegal and--”

“I think they prefer _undocumented_ ,” Wallace pointed out.

“She’s undocumented,” Mac corrected with a quick nod, “and not in any of the databases I can access, so all of our usual tricks are just not working.”

“Methods,” Veronica said. Mac made an exasperated face, and Veronica added, somewhat defensively, “I mean, they’re not actually _tricks_. Not usually, anyway. Besides, methods sounds more professional.”

“Sure,” Mac said, with a pointed look at Veronica’s nearly empty wine glass. “Much more professional.”

“Hey!” Veronica protested.

Wallace turned sideways, propped his legs lengthwise on the couch, ignoring Veronica’s exaggerated sigh as she shifted away from his shoes. “That sounds like a pretty tough nut to crack.” He considered for a moment, his gaze drifting up toward the ceiling. Then he nodded. “Yeah, I don’t know how you’d find anyone other than, you know, shoe leather.”

Mac nearly choked on a sip of wine. “Shoe leather?” she repeated, coughing. She set the wine glass down with a decisive clink.

“Yeah, you know -- boots on the ground” Wallace said. “Shoe leather.” When both women continued to simply stare at him, he rolled his eyes. “I’m saying maybe you can’t figure this one out on the internet. You might actually have to, you know, go _look_ for her.”

Veronica considered his point. He was almost certainly right -- and it’s not that she didn’t expect to have to knock on doors for this case, but she usually had something more specific to go on than the town the missing person had lived in six months ago and the city that may or may not have anything to do with her aunt. Plus-- “The client isn’t really paying us enough for a lot of trips to Long Beach and Sacramento.”

Wallace shrugged. “Maybe you guys need to charge people more.”

If only it were that simple. With a sigh, Veronica drained the rest of the wine in her glass and pushed herself off the couch. “Okay, it’s Friday night. Let’s at least go have a dinner somewhere _not_ here.”

“Before we go to bed at 10:30, like the tired 29-year-olds we are now?” Mac guessed, a resigned smile on her face.

Veronica and Wallace exchanged glances, then shrugged. 

“Yeah.”

“Probably.”

& & &

Veronica paused partway down the stairwell of yet another mediocre, slightly-past-its-expiration-date apartment complex, pulling out her small notepad. She squinted at her hastily scrawled notes. “Wait, Dad?”

He stopped three steps down and turned to look up at her. “Yeah?” She could see the strain in his face -- he was tired and probably a little sore, but she thought maybe it was more than that.

“Was this apartment the one with the gross stovetop? Or was this one the tiny bathroom?” They’d been to five places so far, none of which she would consider good enough for her dad. He loved the garden at the house; he’d spent hours out there during his recuperation, and it made her depressed to think of him with a couple sad potted plants lining the windows of an apartment. 

The actual apartments they’d looked at weren’t _awful_ \-- probably a small step up from Sunset Cliffs, where they’d lived before she left for Stanford. It was just that her dad had been through a lot, and she wanted him comfortable and happy. 

Why was that so impossible in Neptune?

Her dad sighed. “Does it matter?”

“Dad--”

“Really, Veronica, I’m a simple man,” he said, starting back down the stairs. She narrowed her eyes and took note of the way he was favoring his right side. “Safe and clean are my must-haves. I don’t need a palatial estate.”

She blew out a frustrated breath and took the last few stairs at a faster pace. “Would you at least look at a couple of these other places?” She’d printed out some listings in a slightly higher rental bracket, but he’d brushed off her suggestions. “In neighborhoods where you _won’t_ have a rat problem.” He gave her a warning look and kept walking, so she followed him to the car. “I just don’t understand why--”

“Because, Veronica, I can’t keep working forever, and my 401(k) isn’t exactly bursting at the seams with retirement money.” He dropped into the driver’s seat and closed the door with enough energy to register his irritation.

Chastened, she opened the passenger door and slid in, turning over his comments in her mind while he started the car and backed out of the space. “Dad, you could always—”

“No,” he interrupted, rolling down his window to let fresh air into the overheated interior.

She would have laughed if she weren’t so frustrated with him. He wanted nothing but the best for her, but never seemed to understand why she’d want the best for him, too. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I’m not taking Logan’s money,” he answered, his tone brooking no arguments. 

“I didn’t--”

“I’m happy that you’ll be taken care of, honey,” he continued, talking over her protests, “but that’s not--”

“ _Taken care of_?” Veronica snapped. Despite her less-than-tangible contributions to her and Logan’s living arrangements and expenses, Veronica would not be some kept woman, and her father damn well knew it. “I’m not some gold-digger trying to marry my way into a life of--”

“I’m sorry.” Her dad patted her knee with his free hand. “That’s not what I meant.” She was mollified for a moment, until he glanced over at her with raised eyebrows. "Marry?"

"Figure of speech," she waved away his point, ignoring the tight feeling in her chest. "What _did_ you mean?”

He sighed, driving silently for a couple miles until he said, “Look, getting crushed by a truck tends to bring some things into focus.” He glanced at her, then back to the road. “I wasn’t paying enough attention to what happens next, Veronica. I wanted to be sure you were okay, safe and happy in your life, and even while you were growing into this woman -- this _self-sufficient_ woman,” he added, the hint of a smile on his lips, “I didn’t really pay much attention to the fact that I was getting older, too.”

Veronica punched him softly in the arm. “Come on, you’re not getting old, Dad.” Because he wasn’t, and he couldn’t, and she wouldn’t let him.

Keith smirked and ran the palm of his hand over his head. “Reality would disagree.” He slowed for a red light. “Really, sweetheart, it just makes sense to live a little more within my means, save some money for later. It’s good, Veronica.” He grinned at her. “I plan to be around for a long time.”

Veronica made a mental note to ask Logan’s finance guy if there was a way for her to add money to her father’s accounts without him knowing. That had to be possible, right? Not that she was rolling in disposable income herself.

“Okay, but--” Veronica’s gaze caught on a sign across the street -- black letters on light grey, airbrushed to look like old English tattoo script. “Wait -- is that Weevil’s place?” she asked, pointing past her father.

Keith glanced over. “Navarro’s Auto Body? Yeah, that’s Eli’s. Why?”

The light turned, and her dad eased off the brake. Veronica pondered for a moment. “Wait, Dad, can you circle back?” she asked. “I want to talk to Weevil.”

“And you can’t just call him?” Her father grumbled, but obligingly pulled onto a side street to turn around.

“It just occurred to me,” she admitted, her mind racing. “Plus, I want to see his shop.” Which was true, actually. She’d been so excited for him after their brief conversation at the reunion, but the situation with Celeste Kane had pushed Weevil back into his old life, at least a little. And as much as Veronica wanted to help (assuming she even _could_ help), she’d been wary of getting sucked back into the PCHers’ legally grey areas -- or of getting anywhere near their patently _illegal_ car stealing operation.

“It’s Saturday, Veronica,” her dad pointed out. “He may not even be there.”

“Oh, he’ll be there.” Her dad shot her a skeptical look, and she added, somewhat darkly, “He learned his lesson a long time ago about leaving underlings in charge.”

“I wasn’t aware chop shop owners had underlings,” her dad commented, pulling into the lot, easing the car into an open space that was only half-blocking one of the five garage doors.

“It’s not a chop shop, Dad.” Because Weevil was too smart to run illegal activities through his own legit business. She hoped. Veronica popped open her door and stepped out, squinting in the sun. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Navarro’s Auto Body was larger than she’d imagined, with a blindingly white stucco exterior. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, exactly, but not this -- though she supposed it would look a little uninviting to paint an entire building black. There was a small office to the right that looked pretty empty, and three of the five garage doors were open. She could see four cars inside, in all different stages of repair.

Before she reached the nearest open garage door, Weevil appeared, wearing tan, oil-stained coveralls and a skeptical expression. He wiped his hands on a rag. “Oh, good,” he said in lieu of a greeting, giving her dad’s old Crown Vic a grimace before turning back to her, “you’re in the right place to get a decent paint job on that thing.”

“Eli,” Keith said, before Veronica could answer. 

She turned back to find her dad joining them, and flashed him an exasperated look. Like she had anything to fear from Weevil or his band of scary _mechanics_. 

“Sheriff,” Weevil answered.

“Weevil, this place is great,” Veronica said. It was true enough -- she was pretty proud of him for having built something of his own, possible extracurriculars notwithstanding.

One expressive eyebrow arched. “Yeah, huh? What do you need, V?”

“What makes you think I’m here for a favor?” she tried, but then shrugged. Why bother with the protestations when he was right? “So, what are the chances that you or any of your boys have contacts in LA?”

“I’m assuming you mean the Lakers.”

She pressed on. “Remember way back in high school when your friend, Gustavo, was trying to get his mother out of LA and resettled in San Francisco?”

Weevil lifted his chin and tilted his head in that sarcastic way of his. “Yeah. You looking for Mrs. Ortiz’s horchata cake recipe?”

“Oh, man, I forgot about that cake.” Veronica paused, remembering that particular barter exchange as one of her favorites. “Delicious. But, no -- I’m looking for someone, and I’m not sure where to start. Mrs. Ortiz and Gustavo were undocumented, right?”

“Oh, I see.” Weevil crossed his arms. “Probably all us illegal brown folk know each other.”

Since the shooting, his combative tendencies were back in full effect, and the content, enthusiastic Weevil she’d seen at the reunion seemed to have disappeared. Veronica made herself count to ten -- well, three at least -- before replying. “I’m just curious if Gustavo or any of your new and improved biker gang pals would have any idea where to start looking for someone in the undocumented community in LA, or possibly Long Beach.”

“It’s not a biker _gang_ ,” Weevil answered, unable to repress a smirk. “It’s a social club.”

“Oh, yeah?” Veronica shot back. “You guys motor out to Indian Wells for a couple rounds every Saturday morning?”

“Didn’t say it was a _boring_ social club.” Weevil shifted, glancing at her father before continuing. “Look, V, I’m not illegal and I’m not from LA. Not sure why you think I can help.”

“This girl is 24,” Veronica explained, rifling through her bag for the printed copy of Sonia’s picture. “She’s Salvadoran, undocumented, and missing. Her brother is worried about her.”

Weevil’s sour expression softened a degree, and he accepted the picture, studying it for a moment. But when he handed it back to Veronica, he simply shrugged. “I’m Mexican. So is Gustavo.”

Veronica’s jaw clenched in irritation. “That’s your answer?”

“No,” Weevil snapped back. “That’s some context for this: My boys aren’t just gonna magically know some Salvadoreña you’re looking for, but,” he raised his voice over her protestations, “I’ll ask around, let you know if I hear anything.”

She nodded, took a deep breath before answering. “Thanks, Weevil. I appreciate it. I just need a place to start.” 

He considered her for a long moment. “And what do I get if I find you something?”

Keith interjected, “There’s no reward money if that’s what you’re asking.”

Weevil jerked his head to indicate the garage doors behind him. “Yeah, ‘cause I’m really hurting for money these days.” He turned back to Veronica. “I’ll take the chit for now, yeah?”

“Sure,” she agreed. Then she wrinkled her nose, pointing at the tan coveralls he was wearing. “They don’t make those in black?”

Weevil half-laughed. “See ya, V,” he said. “Sheriff.”

“Eli,” her dad answered, then turned back toward to the car.

& & &

Sunday passed in a long, tedious, lonesome fashion. 

Falling back into habits ingrained during his long deployment, she composed a cheerful email to Logan, attaching a picture Mac had taken Friday night of Veronica and Wallace jostling for the last bit of chocolate lava cake. She assumed that the war games communications blackout included email, but it felt wrong and uncomfortable to be cut off from him, so she sent the email anyway.

Now she just needed to convince herself not to expect a response.

With absolutely nothing better to do, Veronica used her frustration with all of the dead ends in the search for Sonia Rodriguez to fuel some much-needed housework. Not that their condo was _that_ difficult to keep clean. It wasn’t _too_ outrageously large -- the spacious living room was separated from the kitchen by a granite-topped breakfast bar, and there was enough built-in storage to keep clutter at _least_ out of sight. 

The two bedrooms and the small study were less neat, but Logan was surprisingly ascetic these days -- she supposed the military had something to do with that -- so aside from the multiple gaming systems and boxes of games in the guest room/game room, they were mostly able to keep things presentable.

But cleaning had always calmed her when she was upset. Sending wistful emails into the abyss and being unable to find Sonia Rodriguez had left her with quite a bit of frustration to work out with a sponge.

Also, she figured since she was the one who refused to accept the intrusion of a maid service, she should probably own the lion’s share of the housework. Though she still collapsed into laughter each time she caught sight of Logan -- _Logan Echolls_ \-- holding a mop or a dustpan. And then he would grin at her, with a broom tilted at a jaunty angle, and let her laugh until she’d had her fill -- or jumped him.

And there she was, missing him like crazy again. Veronica grabbed the sponge more tightly, scrubbing the tiled walls of the shower with what was surely excessive force. She added more cleaner, probably too much cleaner, since it was starting to make her throat burn, and put a bit more elbow grease into it. 

She was tilted at an impossible angle, balancing her weight on one knee and a hand so she could clean the caulk in the corner of the tub, when she heard her phone. 

“Shit.” It wasn’t Logan, obviously, but -- what if it was? She _had_ mentioned in her email that she’d asked Weevil for some help -- it wouldn’t be terribly surprising for him to call and protest the arrangement. She pushed herself upright, tossing the sponge into the tub and sprinted into the living room. 

Veronica swallowed her disappointment and accepted the call, breathing a little heavily when she answered. “Hey, Weevil.”

“Am I interrupting your Pilates class?”

Veronica snorted, then rubbed at her nose, which was still tingling a bit from the overwhelming scent of cleaning products. “I prefer yoga -- you know how I like to meditate.” A little belatedly, she wondered why, exactly he was calling. As much as she needed a lead on Sonia Rodriguez, if he’d managed to track her down in a day, Veronica might start to question her own PI cred.

“So I don’t have anything real specific for you,” Weevil said, “but tell me you’re not planning to walk your lily white ass into East LA and just hope for the best.”

“Of course not!” She was mildly offended that he thought her so incompetent. Dropping into the armchair near the windows, Veronica stared absently into the partially constructed building across the street. It was slated to open in a few months, which she hoped meant that the early morning construction noises would finally, blissfully be a thing of the past. “And actually, my client mentioned Long Beach.”

“Oh, much better,” Weevil answered. “You still speak that flawless Spanish?”

“Si?” she tried. If he were there in person, she would have added a winning smile as punctuation. Maybe bat her eyelashes a little.

“Look, V, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go poking around places you don’t understand.”

“Weevil--”

“Let me finish,” he interrupted, frustrated. “We need some stuff for the shop. I was gonna send Eduardo tomorrow, but turns out the shop’s in Inglewood. Not exactly where you want to be, but I figure we can combine trips.”

“I…”  Veronica honestly didn’t know how to react to his unexpected offer. They hadn’t quite fallen into their old favors-for-favors relationship since she’d been back in Neptune, but if he wanted to help, she could certainly use it. “That would be great, actually.”

“Been a long time since my little stint as your dad’s helper, so I’m just there for muscle. And Spanish.”

Veronica grinned. “You really are a sweet guy, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, don’t go telling people that nonsense,” he answered gruffly. “And don’t _even_ think we’re taking that BMW -- I’ll pick you up.”

“I don’t drive the BMW,” she protested. “That’s Logan’s car.”

“Oh, yeah? You rockin’ a Ford Fiesta now?”

“I drive a _used_ car, thank you very much.”

“Yeah?” he challenged. “What make?”

She paused, but there was really no way to save it. She sighed and admitted, “An A4.”

Weevil actually snickered. “Yeah, we should probably leave your _Audi_ in Neptune with your boy’s Beamer.” 

“You’re a riot, Weevil.”

“I’ll pick you up around 9. Be sure to have a half-caf skim latté waiting for me.”

& & &

END CHAPTER ONE


	2. Chapter 2

Veronica stood beside Weevil, drawing upon every last shred of her patience to remain quiet and still. _Unobtrusive_ , he’d suggested, with a pointed look at her blonde hair, which she’d mostly hidden beneath one of her dad’s old Padres hats in response.

Still, Weevil blended in much better than she did. He wore baggy jeans and an open, oversized button-down shirt over a plain black t-shirt -- an outfit not dissimilar to the ones worn by the small group of 12- or 14-year-olds down the block. They’d appeared several minutes ago, riding their bicycles in small, listless circles, and if Veronica wasn’t imagining things, they seemed to be edging closer. She crossed her arms over her fitted denim jacket, projecting the disaffected carelessness of those teenagers right back at them.

Weevil was still chatting up a woman carrying her groceries home, batting those Maybelline lashes for information. Veronica’s Spanish was pretty bad -- it wasn’t much help listening in when she could only recognize words like “yes” and “but” and “brother.”

Frustrated, she turned her attention to the rows of small, mostly sad one-story houses along Henderson Street -- faded paint, barred windows, unkempt yards. This neighborhood in the southeast part of Long Beach wasn’t too different from the sadder sections of Neptune, though, admittedly, Neptune’s graffiti problem was nowhere near as pervasive.

Of course, the graffiti was either too stylized or in code, because Veronica couldn’t make sense of the symbols and shapes and letters sprayed repeatedly on the boarded up corner store. Veronica stifled a sigh and looked back at Weevil, who was engrossed in conversation. Just barely, she resisted the urge to tap her foot or drum her fingernails against her arm, or do _anything_ other than just stand idly by, returning the curious stares of onlookers.

“Algo más?” Weevil asked, and Veronica’s attention sharpened. There was something in his voice now, something unsettled.

“Weevil?” she said, but he ignored her.

The short brunette with the groceries -- Veronica thought her name was Carmen, but they’d talked to a lot people, and Weevil wouldn’t let her take notes -- said, “Si, eso es todo.”

“Graçias,” Weevil said with a nod, turning to Veronica. His gaze shifted past her, over her shoulder, and he dipped his chin. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” she repeated, a little thrown. Because unless Carmen had given Weevil an address in the three minutes she’d been talking to them, they were no closer to finding Sonia or her aunt than they’d been when they’d arrived. 

She turned to follow Weevil’s gaze. A man wearing sunglasses and an oversized LA Dodgers jersey over a black t-shirt  had wandered around the corner of the boarded up store and stopped, smoking as he leaned against a large, spray-painted “ _S_.”  

Veronica fell into step with Weevil, making herself uncross her arms, walk with nonchalance since that’s what Weevil was doing despite the tension she could feel rolling off of him. 

The guy in the Dodgers jersey watched them with muted interest as they drew closer.

Weevil touched her arm, indicating the other side of the street with a tilt of his head. 

“Weevil--?”

“Enough, V,” he interrupted, his voice a low, impatient growl, urging her forward with a hand on her back. She couldn’t quite read his mood, which was a little unsettling in itself. He definitely seemed determined to leave. “There’s nothing here on your girl.”

Veronica stepped away from him and circled his truck to wrench open the passenger door, not quite able to tamp down her frustration. “We’ve only been here--”

“Two hours.” Weevil slammed his door shut and started the truck. “All you’ve got is a name and a city -- were you really expecting her to walk up and say ‘Hola’?” He didn’t wait for her to fasten her seatbelt before pulling away from the curb and accelerating down the block. Weevil barely slowed at the stop sign, glancing once at the man on the corner with a muttered, “Pinche güey.”

Veronica kept her attention on their audience of one, twisting in her seat as they turned. He tossed his cigarette down and stepped on it, watching their retreat. She couldn’t pinpoint why a random guy smoking on a street corner would feel ominous (aside from, you know, potential lung cancer), but she was a bit creeped out.

“You know that guy?” Veronica asked, turning to face the front again. The look Weevil threw her way was poisonous. “Okay,” she said. “What’d Carmen say?” 

“Carmelita,” Weevil corrected, driving a little more aggressively than he had on their trip north. “She said their neighborhood is MS-17, and they don’t really take kindly to questions. You didn’t notice those corner boys?”

“MS-17?” Veronica repeated, lost. It didn’t ring a bell for her, despite the hours that she and Mac had spent futilely searching for clues. “Wait, those kids on bikes?”

Weevil tossed her a frown, then shook his head at the road. “Jesus, V, maybe you need to step back from this case.” They reached the freeway, and Weevil accelerated onto the 710. “Those kids in MS-17 colors, that guy who just happened to take a smoke break where he could watch you and me?”

Veronica couldn’t quite bite back the flare of anger. “What are you talking about?” she snapped.

“MS-17’s a gang, real bad news. And,” he continued over her questions, “neighborhoods like these? You’re in it or under its protection, or some really shitty things start happening to you and yours.”

Veronica considered that, trying to fit a gang into the Sonia Rodriguez puzzle. “Weevil, I’m just looking for a missing woman. It has nothing to do--”

“No, you need to hear this.” Weevil slapped the steering wheel. “You can’t go barging into the barrio thinking the color of your skin’s gonna protect you.”

She recoiled, surprised and a little offended. “I _don’t_ think--”

“Places where the cops won’t go, V?” he said, braking suddenly, before pulling into the next lane to accelerate around slower drivers. “Always someone else right there willing to step in. There wouldn’t be an MS-17 if anyone _who was supposed to_ actually gave a shit. But if you live there and you know what’s good for you, you join or you pay your protection money, and then your house doesn’t get torched and your daughter doesn’t get raped.” He stopped talking abruptly, jaw clenched.

Her anger dissipated. Because he’d made it so far, despite every obstacle Neptune’s caste system had thrown in his way, but maybe she was starting to understand why he was back with the PCHers. Or at least why he thought he needed to be. “Weevil?”

“You get in trouble in that neighborhood, you can’t expect the cops are gonna come in after you,” he answered, his tone unexpectedly cool and calm.

Veronica hesitated, but figured she wouldn’t ever get a better opening. “Are you talking about Long Beach or--?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He glanced at her, his expression dark and unreadable. “MS-17 -- they’re brutal. But someone’s gonna protect the ‘hood if the cops won’t, and up there, MS-17 is it.”

The worst part was that Veronica could understand the logic -- strength in numbers was appealing when the people who are supposed to protect you couldn’t be more clear about their lack of interest. And after Weevil’s most recent brush with the corruption in Neptune, maybe it wasn’t that surprising that he’d reassembled his old biker family. “I suppose,” she said slowly, “leadership of the group in power matters a lot. For the people just trying to live their lives, I mean. In terms of protection versus exploitation.” 

Weevil cut her a look. “The PCHers are a bike club.”

“Okay,” she answered softly. In high school he’d kept the PCHers on a tighter leash that some of his predecessors, and he was undoubtedly doing the same now that he’d fallen back into the life. But they _were_ a gang, even if they mostly restricted themselves to property crimes.

Weevil stewed in silence for a bit, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “Couple years back,” he said finally, “the PCHers down in San Diego, they think they can make a little extra if they add distribution to their activities, so they try to team up with 112th Street out of Inglewood.”

Veronica had a pretty good guess where this story was going. “I take it that didn’t go so well?”

“Apparently MS-17 didn’t take too kindly to 112th Street expanding their reach. And they don’t get too concerned about making sure they kill the right people.” He grimaced. “The fallout -- let’s just say there’s a couple less PCHers in San Diego, and my boys don’t even ask why we don’t get into distribution anymore.”

She pulled the baseball cap off, freed her hair from the ponytail holder. “So your PCHers are still card-carrying members of D.A.R.E., then?” she sniped, because maybe he was right about some of this, but he could hardly claim the moral high ground when it came to gangs.

He cut her an angry look. “We don’t sell drugs, V, and you know it. It’s a _bike_ club.”

“Oh, I know.” She stared out the window, wishing they were back home. Maybe wishing they hadn’t gone on this little adventure. They hadn’t unearthed any clues about Sonia Rodriguez, and thinking too much about Weevil back with the PCHers left her feeling angry and maybe a little sad. “You guys take long scenic, rides along the coast, steal the occasional car, and then rescue kittens.”

Weevil snorted. “Whatever, V.”

Veronica wanted to ask him what the PCHers did to ensure they got protection money, or how they punished people who stepped out of line. She wanted to ask how his wife felt about his involvement with the PCHers, but she didn’t think Weevil was in a particularly sharing mood. He reached over and flipped on the radio, turned it up so some really terrible heavy rock music filled the cab of the truck.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the trip back to Neptune. Veronica sent Mac a couple text updates, and then scrawled a few notes from their mostly fruitless trip to Long Beach.

“Home or office?” Weevil broke the uneasy silence as they exited the freeway.

“Office is fine,” she answered, looking at the familiar, crumbling buildings of the inland part of the city with an even more cynical eye than normal. There _were_ gang tags, now that she was looking for them -- indecipherable alphanumeric claims on street corners and blocks.

“Veronica,” Weevil said as he pulled over in front of Mars Investigations. “Promise me you won’t go back up there alone.” He looked resigned and worried, all at once.

Instinctively, she bristled. “Weevil--”

“I’m trying to keep you from catching the attention of some dangerous people,” he said, “not commenting on your _terrible_ Spanish.”

Veronica thought about it for a minute. “I won’t knowingly wander into gang territory alone, okay?” she offered finally.

Weevil shook his head, one skeptical eyebrow lifting. “You must’ve done pretty well in law school, V.”

Her smile was genuine when she reached for the door handle. “You know it.” 

& & &

The mood in the Mars Investigations outer office was… not great. Despite Veronica’s spirited efforts to keep the conversation focused on Sonia Rodriguez, instead of scary, unrelated gang stuff.

Mac slumped forward, elbows on her desk, chin in her hands, and stared at Veronica, who was sitting at one end of the couch, leaning on the armrest. 

“I hate to say it,” Mac started, “but--”

“Weevil is _not_ right,” Veronica interrupted dismissively. They had absolutely _no_ indication that Sonia Rodriguez had any connection to gangs, so why freak out about it? In fact, if Veronica had her way, they would just table the MS-17 matter entirely and go along their merry way, searching for a missing woman.

Keith appeared in the doorway to the inner office, looking far too interested in their conversation for Veronica’s tastes. “What is Weevil wrong about?”

Veronica tried a grin. “The attractiveness quotient of neck tattoos?” A true, yet non-responsive statement, if there ever were one. 

Her dad ignored her, keeping his attention on Mac, who promptly sold Veronica out. “Apparently the neighborhood Berto pinpointed in Long Beach is gang-affiliated. Like, _hard core_ gang.”

“Dad, it’s fine -- we asked some questions and we left,” Veronica said, hoping to stave off the inevitable parental interrogation. “We’re not going back.” Which was probably even true -- she had no desire to make herself _or Sonia_ into a target by asking questions that could ruffle any MS-17 feathers.

“Which gang?”

Veronica sighed, because she knew that tone of voice. He would push until he found out, so she decided it would be best to tell him herself, so she could frame it properly. Though how to make this particular topic sound less scary was beyond her.

“MS-17,” she said finally, deciding on the blandest version of the truth she could muster. “Pretty bad guys.” 

Keith nodded slowly, brow furrowed in that way he had when he was trying to extract some bit of information from his memory “They have a loose association with cells back in Central America, too, right?”

“Yeah, mostly El Salvador. Terrible guys.” Veronica pulled her legs up onto the couch and tugged her lightweight jacket a little closer against a sudden chill. “But it started in LA in the 80s. Actually, it began as a means of protection for Salvadoran immigrants against the established gangs,” she said, her tone hollow.

She and her dad had struggled, and had experienced a lot of the fallout of a corrupt establishment here in Neptune, but she was thankful she’d never had it so bad that joining a gang seemed like the _responsible_ thing to do.

“Drugs?” Keith asked.

Mac winced. “Surprisingly, that’s not their focus. They’re more into…” She glanced at Veronica, then rattled off, “Murder, violence, weapons trafficking, human trafficking.”

“Though,” Veronica added brightly, “they’re so _good_ at the murder and violence that some of the big Mexican drug cartels are trying to get them into the game.”

Her dad worked his jaw, hands on his hips. “This is not a joke, Veronica.”

“Believe me, I’ve been reading up on MS-17,” she answered, wishing she could forget the images she’d seen of dead bodies, of deadened eyes in the faces of young girls forced into prostitution. “I’m well aware of the seriousness. But there’s absolutely _no_ indication that this gang has anything to do with Sonia Rodriguez. Can we keep that in perspective, please?”

Keith moved into the room, finally, taking a seat beside Veronica on the couch. “Honey, if the only lead in this case is a gang neighborhood, shouldn’t we at least consider refunding Mr. Rodriguez’s money and walking away?”

Veronica knew he was right to be examining their options, but she wasn’t ready to give up quite yet. “Long Beach was a dead end anyway, so this gang stuff,” she shrugged, “it’s beside the point. There’s a missing girl, and I want to find her.”

“We can focus on Ceres,” Mac offered. “I know Berto didn’t give you all that much information about it, but I’ve been reading some stuff on the undocumented community up there -- it might be a place to start.”

“Great,” Veronica brightened. “We can start on Ceres, and I’ll call Berto, see if he remembers anything else that could help.”

Her father touched her arm. “You need a lift home?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Veronica pushed herself upright, unable to stifle a yawn as she stretched. “You okay, Mac?”

Mac waved her off, staring studiously at her monitors. “I’ve got a couple fun things I’m working on. I’ll be here awhile.”

Veronica paused. “What things?” she asked, her curiosity piqued. Because there were absolutely no digital stones left unturned in the Sonia Rodriguez case at this point, and as far as Veronica knew, her dad didn’t have much going on that involved Mac’s skillset.

Mac typed a little more emphatically, refusing to look up. “Just a consulting thing,” she answered, but she sounded a little flustered.

Veronica drifted closer to Mac’s desk. “Oh, yeah? Who’s the client?”

“Just-- Just a client, okay?” 

“Oh, now we’re getting somewhere.” Veronica leaned forward, resting her palms on Mac’s desk. “I think you might be blushing.”

Mac glanced up, her lips pursed in exasperation. “You are a pain in the ass, you know that?” She was trying very hard to school her features, but Veronica knew from a few tipsy nights at Wallace’s that Mac was a _terrible_ poker player. “It’s just a fascinating security problem. You know, nerd fun.”

Veronica wanted to push, wanted to wring the full story out of her friend, but she figured Mac wouldn’t appreciate having that particular discussion in front of Keith. Reluctantly, Veronica pushed away the desk and backed toward the door. “Your idea of fun is seriously demented,” she said, grinning when Mac just flicked her off in response.

“C’mon, kid,” her dad said, handing Veronica her bag. 

Veronica accepted it and tossed a “Night, Mac!” over her shoulder as they left. The Sonia Rodriguez case was a difficult nut to crack, but she would be able to get Mac to spill on this blush-worthy consulting gig pretty easily. So at least she had that to look forward to.

Once in the Crown Vic, Veronica leaned her head against the window, suddenly very, very tired. And damn Logan for making it hard for her to sleep alone again. It wasn’t fair for him to do that, considering he had at least another year in the Navy and who knew how many deployments to go. 

Long distance _sucked_.

“Logan’s still radio silent?” her dad asked, and she _hated_ it when he could read her so easily.

“I should probably be used to it by now,” she said, hating the note of self-pity she could her in her own voice. She’d never fully appreciated just how difficult being a military family must be -- and she decided to gloss right on past the scary but kind of appropriate idea that she and Logan were _family_. 

They turned onto her street, and Veronica noticed a new logo among the many construction company signs on the nearly completed building across from theirs. Apparently half the fun of working on a new building was the pissing contest among the various trades -- concrete, electrical, windows, etc. -- for Most Prominent Signage Location. 

The new sign was for a painting company, which _she hoped_ meant the long-promised coffee shop might be a reality soon. She perked up, trying to gauge how long she’d have to wait for sweet, sweet fresh-brewed coffee, but the windows were still covered with butcher paper. 

Her dad pulled to the front of her building and stopped. “Veronica.”

She promptly forgot about the signage and focused on her dad. “What’s wrong?”

For a long moment, he stared straight ahead, through the windshield into nothing. “Gangs aren’t really known for subtlety or finesse. I know you think there’s no connection, but just in case,” he glanced over at her. “For me -- do you have your gun?” 

“No,” she answered immediately. She certainly hadn’t expected that question. Veronica shook her head. “I mean, I _have_ it -- not _on_ me, but--”

“You need to have it on you,” he demanded, and she could hear the trepidation in his voice. “Now. Tomorrow. MS-17 -- they’re ruthless, Veronica.”

“Dad…” She covered his hand on the steering wheel. “Weevil didn’t introduce me to a single person. MS-17 doesn’t know anything about me. It’s not related to Sonia Rodriguez.”

He met her gaze. “Still -- keep it with you. At least for a few days. For me.”

Veronica wanted to argue, wanted to explain how ridiculous (and terrified) she felt carrying a _gun_ , but he was honestly afraid for her. So she nodded. “Just for the next couple days.”

& & &

The next morning, Veronica spent quite a bit of time staring balefully at the nondescript wooden box on the kitchen counter.

Normally she kept the small pistol her dad gave her unloaded and safely in its box, locked in the top drawer of her desk. The few times she’d taken it to the firing range to practice, she’d carried it gingerly, still nestled in its box.

But now she was supposed to carry it with her. Like, as part of her everyday daily life.

“Okay, it’s not going to put itself in your bag,” she muttered, opening the box to retrieve the gun. Pointing it toward the ground, she popped open the barrel to confirm it wasn’t loaded, then snapped it back into place. 

With the gun tucked into the interior pocket of her bag and some bullets tossed in after it, Veronica slung the bag onto her shoulder, fastidiously ignoring the added psychological weight. She was just going to meet Berto at a Starbucks for a conversation. With a gun in her bag. Nothing to worry about at all.

She drove carefully one mile-per-hour less than the speed limit, used her blinkers, and came to a complete stop at each stop sign she encountered. Because a simple traffic stop could escalate if an incompetent and corrupt deputy overreacted to the news that she had a weapon with her, licensed or not.

A little jittery by the time she reached the Starbucks near the industrial part of town, Veronica parked and took a couple calming breaths before turning off the car. She was overly aware of the bag bouncing against her hip as she walked into the Starbucks, and told herself to _chill_. 

Berto was waiting at a table near the window, a different pair of paint-splattered pants on, and the same hoodie he’d had the week before proclaiming him an employee of Flanagan Painting Pros. He was holding a small coffee cup, and looked up when she entered. 

Veronica waved, then pointed to the counter. “Let me just grab a drink.”

He nodded and smiled, stirring sugar into his coffee and looking absently out the window. She joined the queue for coffee, studying Berto from afar. Berto looked tired, and less… _something_ than the last time she’d seen him. Less self-assured, maybe? Veronica couldn’t quite put her finger on it. 

She could have asked Berto questions over the phone, but she had a much better bullshit detector in person -- particularly when the pieces of a story weren’t hanging together. It was easier to identify the weak spots when you made someone look you in the eye if they wanted to lie. 

Berto didn’t have much time, but had agreed to meet her during his lunch break. Once Veronica procured an iced latté and a couple packets of sugar, she joined him, putting her cup down and then carefully hanging her bag over the back of the chair.

She really hoped this obsessive hyper-awareness that she was carrying a _gun_ would start to fade. Soon.

“How’re you doing, Berto?” she asked brightly, tearing open the sugar to pour some into her latté. She leaned over her drink, inhaling the aroma with a small, appreciative smile.

“I’m okay.” He gave her a penetrating look. “Have you found anything?”

Veronica bought a little time by taking a sip. “It’s been difficult,” she admitted. “Long Beach was…” She shrugged. “We didn’t find much there.”

Berto’s shoulders slumped and he sat back a bit in his chair, his disappointment clear. “Oh,” he murmured.

“Yeah.” Veronica stirred her coffee with the small wooden stirrer. “I wish I had better news.”

He straightened a bit, nodding. “I know, and I appreciate your efforts.”

Veronica paused, because if there was a _polite_ way to ask people about their possible gang affiliations, she’d never mastered it. ”Though I did want to ask…” 

Berto was watching her curiously, the hint of a smile playing about his lips now. “What is it?” he asked.

“When we were in Long Beach,” she began, “we realized that-- Are you--?” She stopped, frustrated, then decided to just rip off the band aid. “Do you have any connection to MS-17, by any chance?”

Berto’s eyes widened. “MS-17?” he repeated, smiling now, and he was really quite handsome when he smiled, his deep brown eyes alight with amusement. “The gang? No. I’m just a painter.” He gave the tiniest of shrugs with one shoulder as he answered. 

“No, I know,” Veronica nodded, feeling like a complete ass. But she couldn’t just ignore the possibility. In fact, it was better to rule it out, to prove to her dad that his fears were unfounded. “It’s just there’s a lot of gang activity in that part of Long Beach, and I wanted to make sure -- Sonia isn’t associated either, right?”

His amusement faded. “No, I would never let her join a gang.”

Veronica reached into her bag for her notepad, startling a bit when her fingers grazed the bullets jumbled along the bottom. She should probably figure out a better system for this. 

“Okay,” Veronica said, uncapping a pen and flipping to a blank new page. “Thanks. I have a couple questions about Ceres, if that’s okay?”

“Sure,” he nodded, cupping his hands around his coffee.

“How long did you and Sonia live there?”

His gaze slid away from hers as he thought about it. “Almost two years.”

“And you lived at the Castle Manor apartment the whole time?” Veronica had seen pictures online, and the place deserved neither appellation -- it was a small, sad collection of square brick buildings, with tiny windows and more dirt than grass making up the small outdoor space.

“No.” Berto turned his coffee in small circles on the table. “We stayed with other people at the beginning. Friends. We had that apartment most of last year.” He sighed. “I had trouble with the rent once she left. Sonia didn’t have steady work, but it was enough for us to make rent.”

“Have you thought of any other friends Sonia might have socialized with before she left? Any other drinking buddies?”

“No. We were pretty private.” Berto glanced at her, then away. “I told her how dangerous it was to get too close to anyone.” 

Fear of arrest and deportation, or something else, Veronica wondered. She studied Berto, still not certain what she really thought of him -- or his request. She knew for sure he wasn’t telling her all the pertinent facts, which irritated her. _Particularly_ if those secrets had anything to do with a violent gang.

Stubbornly, she pushed that thought away. “And those friends are the names you gave me last week? Also,” she lowered her voice, “undocumented?” 

“Yes,” he answered, his pitching his voice so low she almost missed it.

She felt awkward, treating his immigration status as some dirty little secret, but she also didn’t want to take the chance that there was an anti-immigration crusader somewhere in the Starbucks who would delight in reporting Berto. She reviewed her notes quickly. “Before Ceres, you were--?”

“Stockton, Manteca, Modesto,” he interrupted, frustrated. “We moved around.”

Veronica schooled her features into polite interest, swallowing back her own rising irritation. _Unproductive_ , she told herself. _Fighting with him will only make it less likely for you to find Sonia_.

“Are the friends you’ve listed the same friends from these other places?”

“Mostly.” He looked up from his coffee and shrugged. “I protected us, Sonia and me. We didn’t make a lot of friends, didn’t tell many people our names. It’s dangerous to trust people.”

She tilted her head, “Wait, you used fake names?”

“No,” he answered. “We just--” He stopped, shrugged. “We were careful about who we trusted.”

Veronica decided to let that thread go for the moment. “Berto, is it possible that Sonia left the country? Would she go back to El Salvador?”

“No,” he answered swiftly. “She doesn’t remember El Salvador, she has no close family there anymore. What would she do there? There’s no work.” His tone had grown dismissive, a little contemptuous, and Veronica studied him. As soon as he met her gaze, he shifted, his shoulders relaxing, the tightness around his lips easing. “I’m sorry for snapping at you,” he said. “I’m worried about Sonia. I’m having trouble sleeping.”

“Understandable,” She answered mildly.  Veronica considered what little new information he’d offered, wracked her brain for what could possibly generate leads on Sonia Rodriguez’s whereabouts. 

“Okay,” she said, “I think I’m going to have to take a trip to Ceres, see what I can find up there.” Technically, she needed Berto’s approval, since he was responsible for her expenses during the investigation, but the search for Sonia Rodriguez was becoming a point of pride. Veronica _would_ find Sonia.

Berto nodded. “I can pay some more on Friday.”

“Great.” Veronica decided that was perfect -- a few more days for her to dig, to figure things out. “Let’s check in then.”

“Okay.” He gave her a half-smile. “I need to go. Work.”

“Sure,” Veronica said. “Thanks for meeting me. I’ll call you with any big updates in the meantime.”

“Thanks,” Berto said, rising. He carried his half-empty coffee with him, giving her a brief wave as he exited the Starbucks. Veronica watched him as he passed by the window, her gaze sweeping past the logo on his hoodie, then snapping back with a sharp, new focus.

“Wait,” she muttered. Flanagan Painting Pros. Why was that name ringing a bell with her all of a sudden?

The building across from hers -- the fancy new construction, a high-rise condo building for the young, rich, and fabulous. A Flanagan Painting Pros sign was just added to that construction site. 

Veronica felt the start of that familiar buzz, the high that she got from solving a puzzle. She grabbed her bag and headed for the door, belatedly patting the sides for the familiar lump of her gun. 

Halfway to her car, she finally asked herself the right question:  What was a high-end paint company doing hiring undocumented workers to paint a high-profile project?

Something about that didn’t make sense. 

Veronica slipped into her car, turned the key, and headed for the office.

& & &

With a little annoyed sound, Mac lifted her hands from her ergonomic keyboard and placed them flat on the desk, turning wide eyes to Veronica. “You need to go in the other room, or take a valium, or _something_ ,” she said. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

Veronica nodded. “Right. Sure.” But there was finally a place to start, and she thought she might lose her mind if she couldn’t jump right in. “I’m just going to--” She crooked her thumb toward the inner office and retreated, opening her laptop and impatiently tapping the desk until it woke up.

Mac was handling the more technical research, so Veronica figured she’d cast a wider net. Unfortunately, Google was _such_ a wide net that the results for Flanagan Painting Pros were all over the place, and mostly unrelated to subject of her inquiry. 

Though she did learn that Patrick Flanagan had three daughters in Neptune schools, and once while chaperoning their school trip, he’d been nearly trampled by a swarm of alpacas. A pack of alpacas? A _bunch_ of them, anyway.

“Veronica,” Mac called. 

She jumped up and practically skipped to the doorway. “My friend Mac, whaddya got for me?”

“Well,” Mac started, pushing herself upright. “This Flanagan Painting Pros of yours is just,” she paused, stretching both arms over her head to accompany a big yawn. Her t-shirt rode up, exposing the delicate edge of a tattoo along her rib cage. “Sorry. They’re just _super_ boring.”

Veronica’s energy dipped a little. “Really?”

Mac circled the edge of the desk and plopped down on the couch. “Really. Founded seventeen years ago by Patrick Flanagan, incorporated eleven years ago, once they started getting more commercial work -- you know, bigger jobs like office buildings. Somewhere around twenty employees, give or take. No major insurance claims filed against them, only a silly breach of contract case that was dismissed by the judge.” Mac shrugged. “There’s not even anything below a B- rating on Angie’s List. _Boring_.”

Veronica tilted her head. “Who’s Angie?”

“Just wait,” Mac said, her tone as playfully condescending as her smirk. “Now that you’re a homeowner, you’ll learn all about Angie’s List -- basically it’s like crowdsourcing your plumber or your electrician.”

Veronica rolled her eyes. “Okay, _I’m_ not a homeowner.”

“Anyway,” Mac continued, ignoring her protest. “Seems like Flanagan Painting doesn’t do much direct consumer work anymore -- it’s mostly commercial painting. Looks like they specialize in high-end projects, like your building.”

“The Pinnacle?” Veronica interrupted, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest. God, she hated everything about the name of their building, up to and including the fact that it _had_ a name.

“Yup. Looks like they did all the condos last year.”

“They’re working the one across the street from mine, too,” Veronica said absently, trying to align the facts in a way that would give her something to go on. 

“Yeah,” Mac shrugged. “They’re fancy. From the filings I could get my hands on, they pay their taxes, definitely no citations for labor practices. They’ve worked some government contracts, even did some stuff on Logan’s base.”

Veronica blinked away that unexpected hit of longing that accompanied his name and focused on the rest of it. “So not really the kind of company you’d expect to have undocumented immigrants on their workforce, right?”

“Pretty much,” Mac agreed. “Government contracts are pretty crazy -- lots of attestations and certifications. It’d be risky to march an undocumented workforce onto the base.”

“Yeah,” Veronica answered, working through the information, sifting it for whatever she could use. She tapped her fingers absently against her bicep as she looked for the best way to exploit this. “I wonder…” She trailed off, then turned abruptly and headed for her desk.

“You wonder what?” Mac asked, following her into the inner office. 

Veronica opened her desk drawer and fished out one of the burner phones. She wrestled with the impossible packaging until Mac handed her a pair of scissors. “Thanks,” she said, sawing the phone free. “Goddamn, this plastic is annoying. I think I’m going to--”

Mac grinned and recited the Flanagan Painting Pros number from memory. She was kind of a freak that way.

“You’re the best, Mac,” Veronica said, and hit send.

“Flanagan Painting,” answered a woman. She sounded older, and a little uninterested in the customer service aspects of her job.

“Hi! I’m sorry to bother you,” Veronica chirped, doing her best to channel the harmless enthusiasm of an 09er with far more money than sense. “I have kind of a silly question!”

“Okay,” the woman answered, somewhat warily.

“See, my boyfriend bought one of the condos in The Pinnacle, and I just. _LOVE_. the walls!” Mac snickered, and Veronica tossed a pad of Post-Its in her direction, wincing when it missed her friend and knocked her dad’s nameplate to the floor. “And I think maybe you guys painted it?” 

The woman hesitated a moment, then answered. “Yes, we worked on The Pinnacle.”

“Awesome! So I’m thinking of getting _my_ condo repainted, because whoever did it was _terrible_ , and maybe color-blind.”

“Okay,” the woman answered.

Snickering, Mac rescued the “KEITH MARS, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR” plaque and the hot pink Post-Its from the floor, holding the latter out to Veronica with a smirk.

“And I bumped into one of your employees yesterday. Like, _actually_ bumped into him -- I mean, I spilled his coffee _all_ over his hoodie. My God, I’m so clumsy sometimes! But this actually worked out great, because if I hadn’t, like, _fallen_ on Berto yesterday, I wouldn’t have found out about all this great painting stuff!”

“Miss, I’m not sure--”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m rambling.” Veronica turned away from Mac, who was leaning on Keith’s desk, laughing, her hands clasped over her mouth in a futile attempt to smother the sound. “I was just hoping I could have Berto come paint my condo!”

The woman answered slowly, “Roberto Flores?”

Veronica scribbled down the name. “Oh, my God, I’m _so_ bad with names! But I thought it was Rodriguez? Like that cheating baseball guy?”

“No, we don’t have any employees named Berto Rodriguez.”

“Wow, stupid me!” Veronica continued. “So could I, like, get Berto to come paint my condo?”

“We’re actually pretty booked up for the next couple months with commercial projects,” the woman answered.

Veronica smirked at the total lack of interest Flanagan Painting had in tackling some rich girl’s condo. “No problem! I’ll call back in a month. Thanks _SO_ much!” She hung up and tossed the phone onto her desk, then peeled the pink post-it with the name “ _Berto Flores_ ” from the pad.

Mac was still giggling off and on, somewhat helplessly. “Like, _awesome_!” she managed, before collapsing into laughter once more.

Veronica rolled her eyes, but couldn’t quite stifle her answering smile. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Mac nodded sternly. “I’m good. Wait.” She paused, holding one hand in the air, as if testing her own resolve. “No, yeah,” she decided, still grinning widely, “I’m good.”

“Okay,” Veronica said, handing Mac the post-it note. “Let’s see if this Berto Flores of Flanagan Painting Pros is our Berto Rodriguez.”

& & &

Veronica and Mac peered impatiently at the large monitor, waiting for the database that Mac had -- _accessed_ \-- to provide the first clues about Berto Flores.

“Are you sure this is untraceable?” Veronica asked, troubled by the potential consequences. Because she was mostly okay with grey areas, but actual, clear illegality didn’t sit well with her. Anymore, anyway. _Damn you, law school_. “I don’t--” 

She broke off mid-sentence. Because the picture on Mac’s monitor was absolutely the man who’d introduced himself as Roberto Rodriguez. 

“What the fuck?” Veronica muttered, scanning the DMV information on Roberto Guillermo Flores. Same age, the physical description looked accurate, and the address listed was one of the ones he’d mentioned to her. But a last name that _wasn’t_ Rodriguez.

“It’s just a driver’s license, though,” Mac pointed out.

“It’s a _government document_ ,” Veronica countered, her brain helpfully offering up a thousand implications to be drawn from this new information. “He said there was no paper trail, nowhere to start for _either_ Sonia or him. He lied about his name, and knows what else?”

“No, I get that part,” Mac explained. “But you don’t need to be a citizen to get a driver’s license. Maybe most of what he told us is true?”

Veronica resisted the urge to actually pat Mac on the head. “You dear, sweet thing.”

“Hey!” Mac protested, trying her hardest to not to smile. “I’m just saying, there are possibilities other than this guy is a total lying jerkface.”

Veronica smirked. “Jerkface?”

“Shut it, Mars.”

“Okay, new project,” Veronica said dragging a chair over to Mac’s desk. “Let’s find out every last thing about our dear client, Mr. Flores.” She retrieved her laptop and a small notepad so she could organize their hit list.

With the chair angled so she could use the corner of Mac’s desk, Veronica finished her quick list of research goals, and pushed the notebook closer to Mac. Mac skimmed quickly, marking items she’d take with an “ _M_.”

“Geez, leave me something fun, wouldja?” Veronica protested, scratching out two of the “ _M_ s” in favor of large “ _V_ s.” She reread the list -- tax filings, arrest records, civil court records, work history -- and nodded. “Let’s do this.”

Mac had far more firepower in her custom-built computer, and Veronica had years of experience and finely honed intuitive skills. It probably shouldn’t have surprised her that they were able to work through the list pretty quickly.

“Taxes paid for the last three years, at least,” Mac announced, scanning the information on her monitor. “Using a Social that seems legit.”

“Yeah,” Veronica agreed, “it looks like a real Social Security number, but there’s something -- the number itself is strange.”

Mac leaned over to look at Veronica’s laptop screen. “Maybe he’s authorized to work in U.S. You know, a green card or whatever. Would he have a Social then?” 

“Maybe,” Veronica answered absently. There’d been a whole class on immigration law offered at Columbia, but of course she hadn’t taken it, opting for _tax_ law instead. Big help now. But she’d read something recently, something that she knew would make sense if she could only remember it. Something about El Salvador-- “Mac!”

Startled, Mac leaned away from Veronica, her chair tilting at a steep angle. “What?”

“Sorry. Remember when we were talking about MS-17, and how it spread from LA _back_ to El Salvador due to deportations, and then it got a lot worse -- more violent -- because of the civil war there?”

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t there something related -- something about an amnesty program for--” Veronica laughed, as Mac was already typing frantically. 

“Temporary Protected Status,” Mac announced. “Due to the strife and violence there -- plus I guess an earthquake? -- El Salvador is one of a few countries whose citizens can…” She trailed off, reading quickly. “Authorized to work.” She turned to Veronica. “So if Berto Flores was granted this -- status,” Mac shrugged, unsure of the terminology, “that could explain the strange Social Security number.”

“It’s not a Social, it’s a...” She paused, dredging up what little she could from law school on the topic. “A taxpayer number. Individual Taxpayer Number -- something like that. For legal workers who don’t have a Social.” Veronica tapped her nails on the desktop as she processed the information. “And if he’s paying taxes on a valid taxpayer number with his work permit and his protected status, then he’s _not_ undocumented.”

“At all,” Mac agreed. “Why would he lie about that?” 

“And more importantly,” Veronica said, “who is Sonia Rodriguez, and why does he want to find her?”

& & &

END CHAPTER TWO


	3. Chapter 3

Veronica and Mac were seated at opposite ends of the couch, facing each other and tossing bits of information back and forth in search of some semblance of logic or order when Keith arrived back at the office. “Ladies,” he greeted. “Gossip session?”

Veronica snorted. “If only.” 

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, loosening his tie. “The meeting with Volodin went well. He said we pretty much have the gig doing basic background checks for his company.” He grinned and pumped his fist. “Predictable revenue, baby.”

“Great,” Veronica said, still distracted by the mystery of Berto Flores. And the whereabouts of Sonia Rodriguez. 

“That’s it?” he grumbled. “I land _predictable revenue_ , the holy grail of small businesses everywhere, and I get the verbal equivalent of a shrug?”

Veronica clapped her hands loudly and hollered, “WAY TO GO, DAD!”

Mac winced. “Geez, I don’t know how you can reach that particular decibel level.” She rubbed her ear and fixed Veronica with a doleful look.

“Pep squad during your formative years does wonders for your lung capacity.” 

“I prefer my pep…” Mac shrugged. “Muted.”

Veronica snickered. “Of course you do.” The moment of levity faded, and she turned back to her dad. “So the Sonia Rodriguez case has taken a bit of a turn.”

He sighed, clearly resigned to his fate. “What kind of turn?”

Mac and Veronica exchanged a look. “Well,” Veronica answered slowly, “it seems the man who hired us, instead of being a scared, undocumented man named Roberto Rodriguez, is actually a divorced man named Roberto Guillermo Flores with a protected legal status and work authorization here in the U.S. -- and a little bit of criminal history.”

Her dad moved to the desk, leaning on it as he processed the new information. “You’re investigating our client, now?” he asked mildly. “Is he funding this part of the investigation?”

Veronica shrugged, because-- “He _lied_ , Dad.”

“Sure, but almost everyone lies,” he answered. Before she could protest, he added, “He’s also paying us to find his sister.”

Veronica snorted. “Well, to find a woman named Sonia Rodriguez, anyway.” She waved that away for the moment. “You’re the one who told me to keep the entire board in mind when considering each move. Why are you surprised that I’m trying to figure out why Berto’s lying?”

Her father watched her, then glanced at Mac. “If you’re having doubts about this case, I can take it over--”

Irritated now, Veronica shifted on the couch, straightening up to focus on him. Because discovering that Berto lied and trying to figure out why wasn’t the same thing as doubting the case and wanting to drop it. “Dad--”

“Or,” he continued, raising his voice slightly, “we can refund his money and walk away. I’m not sure the PI handbook endorses turning your investigative powers on your paying client.”

“I must have misplaced copy,” Veronica answered.

Mac glanced back and forth between Veronica and her father, clearly a little thrown by the discord. “Well,” Mac offered, a bit hesitantly, “but, there might be information out there about Berto Flores that will help us find Sonia Rodriguez.”

“Explain?” he requested, and Veronica narrowed her eyes. He was playing them, treating them as if they were his unruly clients and not his colleagues. Making them spell it all out so he could determine what was true.

“Fine.” Veronica would make their case, and he would agree, because they were _right_ about this. She knew they were.

Mac touched her arm. “Let me.” Veronica nodded, since Mac was less angry and more reasonable at the moment. “Roberto Flores _is_ Salvadoran, and probably did enter the country illegally. But in 2001, he successfully applied for Temporary Protected Status, which means--”

“How did you get immigration records?” he interrupted, and it was Keith’s turn to sound annoyed.

“We didn’t hack in,” Veronica interjected. “Trey -- he was in my study group at Columbia -- he does immigration law, and he has some contacts at ICE.” Her father’s expression was still stormy, and Veronica shifted her attention to the cuff of her jacket, smoothing the seams. “He was able to get unofficial confirmation for us.”

“So,” Mac continued, “that means that Berto is able to work legally, and do almost everything else that a green card holder can do. There’s no legal reason why he’d be struggling in the same way actual undocumented workers are.”

“And,” Veronica chimed in, “We think Sonia Rodriguez probably isn’t Berto’s sister.”

“Okay,” Keith answered. His demeanor had shifted as they walked him through the information they’d gathered. They almost had him, but Veronica knew he would continue to push for holes in their theory. “And why do we think that?”

“Well, first of all,” Veronica said, “why wouldn’t Berto’s sister be able to get the same legal status if she’s also from the war-torn country that Congress named? And there’s no mention in his application of a sister -- he lists a brother back in El Salvador and a father working somewhere near Barstow, but no sister.”

“Could be an oversight.”

“When he was posing as Sonia’s brother, he told me their parents were dead,” Veronica said.

“Hmm.”

“Yeah,” Veronica agreed. “I know.”

Mac jumped back in. “There are some other things we found that make the whole thing a little more…”

“Shady?” Veronica offered.

“Five years ago,” Mac continued, “Berto married a woman named Felicia, up in Sacramento. They had a daughter, Ana Sofía Flores, six months later. Three years ago, they divorced for irreconcilable differences, but police were called to their apartment at least four times during the last couple months of their marriage.”

“No charges were filed,” Veronica added, “because each time, Felicia refused to press charges. The public information is vague, but the police reports are a pretty good indication that Berto was violent toward Felicia, and maybe their daughter.”

All of which was awful. Veronica had absolutely no tolerance for men who beat women, but people who abused _children_ were just… She couldn’t help thinking of Aaron Echolls when she heard about little Ana Sofía. Logan had told her some of it, in college and this past year. The faded scars on his skin were bad enough, but the cracks and fissures in Logan’s self-image were worse. 

Looking back now, Veronica understood teenaged Logan’s rage, and the neediness that had really just been a manifestation of his abandonment issues. And it made her even more proud of the stable, calm man he’d become. But it had taken a lot of time and a lot of effort to heal those wounds enough for them to be survivable, _livable_ , and she would be damned if she’d help a man who would inflict that kind of damage on a harmless kid.

Veronica watched her dad process the information, saw the precise moment he accepted their conclusion -- Sonia Rodriguez wasn’t Berto’s sister, she was his girlfriend or his wife. And he was using Mars Investigations to track her down because he wanted her back.

Or because he wanted her dead.

Her dad grimaced. “This is an interesting theory, but we don’t have any confirmation.”

“Yet,” Veronica answered. “I’m heading to Sacramento tomorrow to talk to Felicia Flores.”

“Veronica…”

She smiled at his resignation. “Don’t worry, Dad -- I’m going to Ceres to look for Sonia, too. It’s for the case. I’m going to find her.”

He ducked his chin, his hands clasped together in front of him as he considered the situation and their rather limited set of options. Finally, he sighed and said, “Don’t charge Berto Flores for the trip. At least not until we have a clearer picture of exactly what he wants with Sonia Rodriguez.”

& & &

Apparently thinking about Aaron Echolls had churned up some of those nightmares of burning alive, and being attacked in her car, and the rape she would never remember -- all of her old horrors jumbled together in new and exciting ways until she jerked awake with a garbled scream.

She shuddered, unable to distance herself from those memories -- the sick dread while trapped in the old refrigerator, the flash of heat when her father wrenched the door open. All these years later, and those damn memories were sharp and clear, while some days she had trouble recalling the sound of Lilly’s laughter. It wasn’t fair.

It had never been fair, and she wanted to talk to the only other person in the world who would understand all of this, but of course, she couldn’t. Alone in their bed, she missed Logan with an intensity that left her shaken, and she couldn’t quite stop herself from texting him, _I miss you_. 

When she finally fell back asleep, her phone was still cradled in one hand. Veronica slept pretty badly after that, and awoke feeling groggy and lonely and maybe a little scared. 

But she was a Mars, and she was not going to give in, so Veronica spent the morning packing for her trip, and trying to get ahold of Felicia Flores. Mac had located Felicia Flores’s Facebook account, and used the geographic tagging on some of her posts to deduce that Felicia worked as a dental hygienist at a small clinic, and usually got home by three o’clock. The address listed on Felicia’s driver’s license was not far off the main drag, and Veronica figured that if all else failed, she could just knock on Felicia’s door.

Felicia’s home number rang several times, but kept switching over to voicemail. While she was waiting for her cab to the airport, Veronica tried another number that Mac had just unearthed, and finally got an answer.

“Hi, is this Felicia?”

The woman on the other end sounded young, hurried, and not terribly patient. “Yes. Who’s this?”

“Hi, Felicia. My name is Veronica Mars, and I’m hoping you might have time later today to talk to me about your ex-husband.”

Silence.

“Felicia?”

“I don’t understand. Are you with Immigration?”

“No,” Veronica answered quickly, smacking herself lightly on the forehead for not anticipating that reaction. “I’m not with the government at all. I’m a private investigator. I’m not-- I’m just trying to find out a little bit about Berto Flores.”

“I don’t have time for this--”

“Please, Felicia, I’m trying to locate Sonia Rodriguez, but I need to make sure that I understand her relationship with Berto Flores.”

A pause, and then, “I don’t know anyone named Sonia.” 

Veronica swallowed her frustration. “But you do know Berto Flores, right?”

“Not anymore,” she answered stubbornly.

Veronica hesitated, unsure exactly which way to steer the conversation. But Felicia hadn’t hung up, so she decided to press a bit more. “I was hoping that you could help shed some light on why Sonia Rodriguez, who Berto says is his sister, would--”

“What?” Felicia interrupted, annoyance clear in her voice. “He doesn’t have a sister.”

Confirmation enough for Veronica that Berto was up to no good. But she needed more information, needed to understand his goals so she could make sure Sonia Rodriguez was located -- and probably protected from him. 

“Okay,” Veronica answered carefully. “So then I was hoping you could help me understand why Berto would lie about that, and also why Sonia Rodriguez might choose to disappear.”

“Oh,” Felicia said, her voice low. “Berto’s looking for her?”

“Yes,” Veronica admitted. It was more than she’d wanted to get into over the phone, but Felicia wasn’t making things terribly easy. She weighed her options, and decided the truth might be the most attractive option. “I’m not sure I want to help him find her.”

Felicia didn’t answer immediately. “You don’t,” she said finally. “If she’s gone, there’s a reason.”

And there it was -- all the terrible things she’d assumed about Berto since unearthing his real name were apparently true. Veronica wondered how she missed it initially, how the small inconsistencies in Berto’s story hadn’t triggered an immediate look at _him_. Wasn’t she supposed to be good at reading people? “Can I come by and talk to you later today?”

Felicia sighed. “Fine. I’ll be home after three.”

“Great. Thanks, Felicia. I’ll see you later.”

& & &

The flight to Sacramento was quick and uneventful, though Veronica was still a little concerned about spending money they couldn’t spare on the trip. She’d just have to make sure she got her money’s worth of information while she was there. And also sleep at a truly terrible, low-end motel to sort of balance things out. 

Somewhat impatiently, Veronica watched her fellow flyers shuffle down the aisle. She wanted to get to Felicia’s place by three, but clearly no one else on the plane had anywhere to be. Eventually, she pulled her phone out and turned it on, tucking it in the back pocket of her jeans as she pulled her bag from the overhead compartment.

Halfway up the jetway, her phone began to buzz, receiving whatever emails or texts she’d missed while she’d been in the air. It was probably too much to expect Mac had been able to find anything to nail Berto Flores to the wall -- it _had_ only been an hour. Veronica moved quickly, weaving through the other passengers and checking the signs for ground transportation as she pulled out her phone to catch up.

There was a notification showing on her lockscreen, and it took a moment for her to recognize that it was a keyword news alert. She’d had Mac set some up, though they usually just appeared in her notification bar. Veronica slowed to read it, then jerked to a stop.

_Navy pilot killed in war games training accident_.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t _move_ out of the way of the people streaming past. A pilot was dead -- a _Navy_ pilot. Her overnight bag thunked to the ground beside her feet.

Her brain refused to process anything, and she simply stared at the words as if she could make them untrue by force of will. 

Navy pilot. Killed.

The war games were Air Force exercises, mostly Air Force pilots -- she remembered that much from Logan’s excessive plane talk. There were only a few Navy pilots invited to participate. There were only a few alternatives to--

No. She stared at the alert until the words dissolved into puzzling hieroglyphs. 

Killed.

She felt odd, fuzzy, and her hands were shaking so badly it took two tries to punch in her PIN to unlock her phone. She clicked the notification, but the source article included little more than the breaking news alert -- no name, no actual information. She read it twice, but her brain refused to absorb it, refused to process anything other than _Navy pilot killed_.

_Call Logan_ , she thought finally, fuzzily, angry at herself for wasting time staring aimlessly at the breaking news alert. _I’ll call him and he’ll answer and then I might be able to breathe again_.

She scrolled to his name, pressed it, and held the phone to her ear, waiting. People moved around her, in strange, blurry clumps, their conversations receding into an inarticulate hum. Veronica closed her eyes and saw a jet crashing, flames and terror. 

One hand over her mouth, she listened to the ringing, willed him to answer.

_War is an ugly thing_ , Logan’s voicemail; Logan’s voice, _but not the ugliest of--_

She sucked in a big, unsteady breath, hung up, scrolled again, hit send. Two rings.

“Something wrong with the rental car?” Mac asked in lieu of a greeting. Veronica opened her mouth, but nothing happened. “Veronica?”

“Mac,” she managed, and even through this haze of disbelief, she could tell her voice sounded -- fuzzy and uncertain and _not_ her.

“What’s wrong?” Mac demanded.

“A pilot--” But Veronica couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say anything. She could feel her pulse racing, could hear it inside her head, chaotic beating.

“A pilot what--?” Mac stopped abruptly. “Oh.” Veronica heard typing, knew Mac had found the AP report, was working her magic to try to get answers. “Veronica, I’m sure Logan’s fine. I’m sure--”

“Please,” Veronica interrupted, not sure what she was asking, not even sure what she thought Mac could do to help. Definitely not sure what she should be _doing_. Belatedly, she glanced up at one of the TV sets sprinkled throughout the airport, but CNN was running a story about a refinery fire in China. She stared blankly at the looped video, the smoke and flames, and then she was imagining a jet crash, picturing it again, and she jerked her gaze from the screen.

“You tried his phone?”

“Yes.” It was more of a breath than a word, only the sibilant loud enough to be heard. Her legs felt strangely unsteady, and she sank to the floor, kneeling beside her bag, barely registering the strange looks from the travelers moving past. She stared at the smooth, worn surface of the floor tiles, dull toward the center of the walkway from heavier foot traffic.

“Okay, Veronica,” Mac said, her voice sure and strong, “he can’t bring his phone when he flies, right?” 

Oh. That was true. She knew they left their phones in the ready room when they flew. She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten such a simple fact.

Veronica could only manage a nod, but Mac continued anyway. “There’s nothing concrete yet. If I need to get past security measures for information, this might take a little longer than I’d like.”

“K.” Just the consonant this time.

Mac’s voice was gentle and a little distracted. “Do you want to wait or--”

“Call me back,” Veronica managed. She hung up, tried Logan again, just in case. Just because she needed to talk to him _right now_. 

_War is an ugly--_

She hit end, scrolled to her dad’s number. Her numbness was fading, replaced by a wild, shivering panic. But at least she could move. Stumbling to her feet like a drunk, Veronica made her way to an empty row of chairs and set her bag down.

“Hi, honey.”

His voice was comfort and safety, and she was going to cry. Dammit. “Dad.” 

“Veronica, what is it?” He answered, sharp and quick.

“A pilot was killed.” She dropped onto the edge of a chair, but couldn’t keep still, her legs bouncing with nervous energy. She was breathing too quickly, but couldn’t seem to focus on any one thing long enough to do anything about it. 

“In Nevada? The press has it?” her dad asked, his own worry and panic and fear coming through loud and clear. 

“Yes. I don’t know if--” She stopped, pushed herself back up, walking in a small, tight circle. She didn’t know anything except that this couldn’t be happening. 

“Do you want me to fly up there?”

“No, Dad, I--” She choked on whatever she’d been trying to say. Shook her head. “I have to-- I can’t just _sit here_.” 

“Where are you, exactly?”

“The airport. I just… I checked my phone.” God, why had she done that? What good did that alert do her, really? She would be utterly useless until she knew something, and since the current holder of the information she desperately needed was the U.S. military, she had no illusions that she’d hear anything soon enough.

Because soon enough was right fucking now.

She wanted to _go_ suddenly, run, flee. The rush of adrenaline flooded her body, and if she didn’t move she’d fly apart.

“Sweetheart, I’m sure Logan is fine. I’m sure they’ll lift the radio silence for something like this.”

She’d forgotten. Goddamnit, she’d completely forgotten that the war games were being held under what amounted to a gag order. For realism.

_And what’s more real than an actual casualty_ , she thought, and then she was laughing, a strange, hysterical edge to the sound. She pressed her hand to her mouth.

“I have to go,” she decided abruptly. Because she wouldn’t have information anytime soon, and she wasn’t entirely sure how she was supposed to just… _live in the world_ without knowing whether Logan was still in it with her. She grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and plunged back into the crowd of travelers. Her movements were just a little uncoordinated, like her muscles were receiving signals a half-second late. 

“Veronica--”

“I can’t just sit here. I have to do something.” She could hear the desperation in her own voice, but there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. The haze had burnt off like the morning fog, and she was left with a dry, burning panic. It took everything she had not to scream and scream until someone just told her Logan was safe.

“Okay.” Her dad sounded weird, like he was trying to talk a jumper off of a ledge. “Veronica, honey, maybe--”

“No, I can’t. I can’t think about this. I can’t, Dad.” She moved faster, that strange jittery panic pushing her forward, like she could outrun this somehow. “I have to go meet with Felicia Flores, and I can’t do this right now. I can’t.”

“I think you need to stop and take a breath, Veronica.”

_If I stop I’ll die_ , she thought, and it was hopelessly melodramatic, but felt true enough to hurt. So she shook her head, turned toward the car rental counter, and said, “I need to call you back.”

& & &

Small, discrete steps. Veronica could manage those. If she kept her focus tightly on one task at a time, she could hold everything together. She was almost sure of it.

The car rental, for example. She dug up her reservation. She was pretty sure she signed something. She acquired a car key and a parking spot number. She located her rental car, and then placed her bag on the seat beside her. Carefully, she folded herself into the car.

Every movement was precise and controlled, because she felt like she might shatter at the slightest bump or misstep. When she started the car, the radio was an assault, and she wrenched the volume knob. Silence was maybe worse than sound, but she couldn’t -- she just couldn’t.

Next step: Felicia’s address.

It was on Veronica’s phone, and she wasn’t sure she could bear to look it up at the moment. Because her phone had Logan’s number, and so many pictures -- of her and Logan at the beach; of Logan asleep in their bed; of Logan, Veronica, and her dad at a Padres game.

_No. Focus._

She steeled herself and retrieved the address, her eyes dry and burning, and typed it into the navigator.

Veronica realized she was going to be late to Felicia’s, and she couldn’t quite make sense of where the last thirty-five minutes had gone. But she didn’t have the energy to let herself wonder about it, since it would necessarily require her to think about that news alert. Focusing through the suppressed panic was enough of a challenge at the moment. 

Driving was difficult. Her attention kept wandering to the image of his face, the warm feel of his hands on her skin -- until the clipped audio of the navigation system jerked her back to the here and now in time for her to make all of her turns. 

Her phone chirped, and Veronica panicked, pulling over abruptly, the steering wheel shuddering under her hands as the wheels slipped on the dirt shoulder. It was stupid -- the Navy wouldn’t text her, and neither her dad nor Mac would text her _bad_ news. 

She fumbled with her phone. Wallace. The text was from Wallace. She touched his name and read, _I’m here for anything you need_.

Veronica wavered, feeling the scary depth of… _something_ threatening to overwhelm her, but she pushed it down, pushed it back.

_No news_ , she replied. 

Shakily, she pulled the wheel left, edged back into traffic. Her attention was split about 50/50 between driving and willing Logan to call her (to be alive).

If she’d had her wits more fully about her, she might have been surprised at how quickly she reached Felicia’s place, a small, relatively well-kept ranch on a side street. There were a few toys in the yard, and a large, orange cat sprawled in a spot of sun on the driveway.

Veronica parked at the curb, taking a steadying breath before she gathered her bag and phone. She was still moving stiffly as she got out of the car, like her nervous system was saving its attention for the screaming panic she was so steadfastly repressing.

As she trudged up the driveway, the oversized cat rose and lumbered toward her with an incongruously high-pitched meow.

She laughed, but it sounded rusty and broken. “Hi,” she said, and the orange tabby pressed his big face against her hand.

“Oliver, leave her alone.”

Veronica looked up to find a pretty woman, younger than she’d expected, with shiny, wavy brunette hair normally only seen in shampoo commercials. “Felicia?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Sorry about him. He’s kind of a whore.”

Veronica looked down -- Oliver was twisting himself around her ankles, purring loudly. She resisted the sharp, sudden impulse to gather him up in her arms and cry into his fur. “No, it’s fine,” she said, stepping carefully over the cat to approach Felicia. “I’m Veronica.”

“I guess you should--” Felicia stopped, searching Veronica’s face. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Veronica answered immediately. That panicky energy was building again, so she dug in her bag for a notepad and pen. “Is it okay if I--?”

“Come inside,” Felicia invited, and Veronica noted even through her distraction that Felicia was much friendlier in person than she’d been on the phone.

Veronica followed her inside. Felicia’s home was decorated with an eclectic collection of furniture that somehow mostly worked together. Veronica knew she should be studying the pictures on display, scribbling down the return addresses on the mail lying on the table, but she just -- _couldn’t_. Most of her energy was engaged in keeping her from shattering. “Can you tell me about Berto?”

Felicia gestured to the couch and took a seat in the red armchair. “What exactly are you looking for?” She picked at the upholstery, her bright pink fingernail polish badly chipped.

Veronica knew she should ease into the topic, ask a couple general questions to get Felicia talking, but all she could come up with was, “Is he a good man?”

Felicia stared, her eyes flashing. “He’s my daughter’s father,” she answered, “and that is just about the only good he ever did me.”

Veronica nodded. “Okay.” She hesitated, trying to phrase her follow up question correctly, but her phone chirped again and she froze. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, clutching it closer, dread and hope swelling up in equal measure.

Another news alert.

_Pilot Dead, War Games Halted, DoD Sources Say_.

The words blurred, and her lungs ached. She realized she was holding her breath and made herself stop as she clicked the link.

_Reuters -- An accident at the Air Force’s annual war games exercises in Nevada today left one Navy pilot dead, multiple sources confirmed. The circumstances around the accident are still under investigation, and the pilot’s name will not be released until next of kin can be notified._

“Veronica?”

She realized she had a hand over her mouth, clearly distressed, and she simply shook her head.

“Let me get you something to drink,” Felicia offered, pushing herself up and disappearing.

_Nothing new_ , she told herself. _Nothing’s changed. Get ahold of yourself._

But something about the short article -- next of kin. Trina. She should call Trina. But she didn’t think she could, didn’t want to try to figure out how to ask Trina if her brother was-- Her brain shied away from the word, from the thought. 

Instead, she texted Mac, _Trina?_

_Your dad called T -- no contact from Navy_ , Mac answered almost immediately.

Veronica figured that might be good news, but she couldn’t be sure. She’d never considered the timeline for the military to contact family members after something awful happened. She’d never _let_ herself consider it, because despite his inherited wealth and privilege, Logan hadn’t had a particularly easy life in many respects, and she refused to entertain the idea that another terrible thing would happen to him.

Refused. And so she just needed to hold it together a little longer.

She had almost managed to gather her control when Felicia reappeared with a glass of water. “Thanks,” she said, her voice almost steady. “I’m sorry. There’s a… a military accident, and…” She stopped, shook her head. “I don’t know anything.”

Felicia looked sympathetic, but confused. “I’m sorry.”

It was exactly the thing Veronica didn’t want to hear, because she had to believe that there was no reason for Felicia’s condolences. Had to believe. So she waved it off. “Berto. He’s--”

Her phone rang, and it was so loud and so unexpected she nearly dropped it. 

She realized she was shaking, but couldn’t bring it back under control. A 702 area code, which meant nothing to her, and no name on the caller ID. Her stomach clenched, and she stared at the phone in her hand, scared to answer it, but terrified not to.

“I…” She stood, stumbled toward the front door.

When Veronica reached the porch, she jerked to a stop, her hand curling tightly around the railing. “Please, please, please,” she said, and pressed ACCEPT.

& & &

END CHAPTER THREE


	4. Chapter 4

“Hello?” she said, her voice unnaturally high and panicked. _Please, please, please_.

“Veronica.” 

Relief hit, sharp and sudden, and she dropped onto the stairs. “Logan.” His name was a prayer, a confession. “You’re okay,” she said, a little bit in awe. 

“Gonzo’s dead,” he said, and then she heard, really _heard_ him. He was wrecked, on the edge.

“Oh, my God. Logan.” She wrapped her free hand across her stomach, trying to keep herself from flying apart with the conflicted rush of emotion -- overwhelming relief and crushing sadness. She’d met Gonzo a few times, at a strange group dinner with Logan’s squadron, and then again at the small housewarming party when they’d moved into their condo. Gonzo was sweet and smart and sarcastic, one of Logan’s closest friends in the Navy.

She couldn’t believe he was dead.

“I don’t know what happened,” Logan said, his voice strangely flat. “I wasn’t up there.”

“Logan. I’m-- I’m really sorry.” And she _was_ sorry about Gonzo, about Logan’s friend. She was. But the relief was still coursing through her, leaving her limbs trembling, and it wasn’t the time for it. She hadn’t lost Logan, but Logan had lost someone.

“Something failed, I guess,” Logan continued, and she wasn’t sure he really even knew what he was saying. “It pitched. Unrecoverable, but I guess he tried.”

She closed her eyes, pressed a hand to her forehead. “Mmmhmmm.” She had a million questions, but he didn’t need an interrogation. He needed her support, and goddamn it, why was he in fucking Nevada right now?

“Gonzo ejected, but the plane was inverted and he--” He paused. “It ejected him towards the ground, and there wasn’t enough time for the parachute--” His words broke on a sob. 

The image he’d drawn in those few fragments was _horrible_. Terrifying. “Logan.”

He struggled for a few long moments. “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes burned, and she pressed her fingertips against her eyelids until she saw spots. “Don’t apologize, Logan.”

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Look, they just gave us a few minutes to check in with our families, so I wanted to make sure I talked to you before any of this hit the news. Didn’t want you to worry.”

“Thanks,” she answered, swallowing back tears again. He was really just so sweet, trying to save her from the wretched panic of the last hour. Didn’t really matter that he hadn’t been able to -- she loved that he’d been thoughtful enough to try.

“I…” He paused. “I really just needed to hear your voice.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Me, too.” She closed her eyes, picturing his face, wishing she could wrap her arms around him and let him grieve the way he needed to. “I love you, Logan.”

“I love you,” he answered, his voice strangled and strained. “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

Veronica nodded. “Bye,” she said, and then he was gone, but he was _alive_ , and she folded over with the amazing weight of it. Chest huddled against her legs, she wrapped one arm around her knees and tried to calm down. She put her hand flat against the brick stairs, grounding herself with the roughness against her palm.

“Oh,” she said, and opened her text program. She created a group, added her dad, Mac, and Wallace. _He’s okay_.

They each responded quickly, with _Great news; I’ll call Trina_ ; _thank god_ ; and _awesome_ , respectively. Veronica smiled at their tiny icon-sized images and replied, _Thanks_. She knew they’d understand the unspoken request not to call her. 

Words were still…. _She_ was still…

Logan was alive, and that was _easily_ the most terrifying hour of her life since the night Cassidy Casablancas blew up a plane.

Veronica pressed a hand to her sternum and inhaled slowly, trying to calm her racing pulse. The adrenaline was still coursing through her -- she was still too amped up. She needed to scream or run or cry or _something_ to burn off this jittery energy.

A furry orange head pressed against her elbow, and Veronica turned to find Oliver standing on the step above her. “Hi,” she said, and offered her hand. Oliver pressed against her, rubbing his cheek along her palm until she began to pet him.

It was surprisingly soothing, petting this strange cat, and when Felicia cleared her throat and opened the screen door, Veronica’s voice was almost steady. “I’m sorry about that,” she said, giving Oliver one last scratch behind his ears before she stood. 

“Everything okay?”

Veronica nodded, and couldn’t quite help the smile. “Yes.” But not completely. “Well, my boyfriend -- his friend--” Goddamnit, it was still too fresh, too raw to articulate. She shook her head.

Felicia studied her for a long moment, her brow furrowed. “You look like you could use a drink,” she decided. “Ana is at my mother’s for another hour. Let’s go to the Starlight and talk there.”

Veronica barely hesitated before agreeing. “That sounds amazing, actually.”

& & &

Veronica and Felicia didn’t speak much on the drive to the Starlight Pub, and Veronica used the time to try to put her entire world back in order -- the world in which Logan was alive (thank God), but doing a demonstrably dangerous job.

She’d known this, of course, but hadn’t been subjected to such visceral proof in the last year. Any problems he’d faced while deployed hadn’t made it back to her, for which she _had_ been grateful, but now she felt guilty. It wasn’t fair to the risks he and his fellow pilots -- his fellow sailors and soldiers and officers -- were taking on her behalf to just… _gloss over_ them. She promised herself she would do a better job, be more supportive and more aware and more thankful.

Felicia pulled to the curb across the street from the small pub. Wordlessly, Veronica followed Felicia inside, taking in the soothing dark wood benches and tables. She was calmer, but the knot of panic and grief in her chest had only diminished to a more manageable size, not disappeared entirely.

“How’s this?” Felicia indicated a table against the windows.

“Great,” Veronica agreed, settling into a seat and placing her phone face up on the table. “I’m sorry about this,” she said, tapping the screen with a fingernail. “My boyfriend is in the Navy.” _Boyfriend_ didn’t seem like a big enough word to describe what Logan was to her, but it was all she had. “And there was an accident today.”

A young, sandy-haired man appeared at their table with water glasses. “Hi, I’m Randy!” he greeted, entirely too cheerful for Veronica’s tastes. “Welcome to the Starlight. Can I get you two ladies menus?”

“Uh, just a Shock Top for me,” Felicia ordered. “Veronica?”

She considered for a moment. “Gin gimlet.” Normally, she wouldn’t drink when interviewing someone, but she figured anything that would help settle her unsteady hands and slow her panicking heart would be a net positive.

Once Randy departed, Felicia said, “So an accident -- but your boyfriend is okay?”

“He is, yes, but one of his friends was killed.” Veronica paused, not really sure how much she should divulge, even to a dental hygienist in Sacramento. Every time she thought she had a handle on the military thing, something else would crop up to remind her that she basically knew nothing. “Training accident,” she offered lamely. She realized she’d pressed a hand to her chest and told herself to stop. Stop reacting. Stop getting lost in the horrible thing that didn’t happen.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Felicia seemed genuinely concerned. 

“I am, too,” Veronica said. Randy arrived with their drinks, and Veronica paused to thank him. She took a sip, then a longer one, feeling that slow warmth spread in her chest. She inhaled, and breathed out slowly. “Today has been…” She shook her head. “But I’m sorry about that. I should have canceled instead of bringing all of that panic to your house.”

“Please,” Felicia waved her off. “Don’t apologize. And I mean, I was pretty skeptical of this whole thing but now I…” She shrugged. “I feel okay about talking to you.” Felicia touched her forehead, flushing a bit. “I’m sorry -- that sounds awful.”

“No, I get it.” Veronica ducked her chin for a moment, still a little embarrassed to have lost it in front of a perfect stranger. “Scary enforcer types don’t usually have mental breakdowns on people’s porches.”

They shared a smile, and the conversation hit a lull. But Veronica didn’t mind, since the worst of her panic had mostly faded and she could actually evaluate Felicia. Which was sort of the point of this whole trip. 

Felicia took a long pull from her bottle, then placed it back on the table, her fingers tense against the glass. “Berto,” she said, “He’s… He’s a con man. He’ll say whatever he thinks will get you to do what he needs, and he’s usually right. But the worst thing is he makes you _believe_ it.” 

Veronica nodded. “Manipulative.” Not surprising for an abuser. Abusers spent as much time as necessary to groom their victims, isolate them, make them doubt themselves. And, of course, abusers worked really hard to normalize the actual abuse, whether it was emotional, physical, sexual, or all of the above.

Berto sounded like a pretty classic abusive _asshole_.

“Yes.” Felicia tugged at the neckline of her loose, blue blouse, shifted in her seat. “He can read people really well.” 

So could Veronica, and it really bothered her that Berto had flown under her dirtbag radar, with his missing-sister story. 

Felicia continued, the words tumbling out faster now. “He gets to you, somehow. He can be charming -- or at least he seems charming at first. Handsome. He doesn’t _look_ like a guy who would--” She broke off, shook her head.

Veronica murmured an encouraging, “Mmmhmmm,” in response, not wanting to interrupt Felicia’s story. After law school, she could cross-examine with the best of them, but she’d also learned the value in just letting people talk, tell their story, without interruption.

Felicia took a long swig from her beer. “Like this Sonia person,” she continued, bitterness in her voice now. “He would never ask you to find a girl who _ran away_ from him, because of course you’d ask _why_ she left.”

Veronica _had_ asked, and she remembered now that the question had seemed to surprise him. Dammit. “A brother looking for his sister seems pretty innocuous,” she agreed. “He also said -- he implied that Sonia was a partier, that she drank too much sometimes and got a little out of control.”

Felicia nodded grimly. “This all sounds so familiar. He _hated_ when I drank at all, said I got flirty.” Her mouth twisted. “Said I got slutty.”

Veronica’s hand tightened on her drink, but she didn’t speak.

“And then,” Felicia continued, “he told our friends I drank too much, that I sometimes I hurt myself, that I got violent with _him_ when I was drunk.”

“Gaslighting,” Veronica murmured. Felicia gave her a puzzled look, and Veronica said, “He was trying to make everyone else doubt you if you said anything bad about him.”

Felicia nodded. “Manipulative.”

“He told me that he and Sonia were both undocumented.”

“So you wouldn’t find anything about him,” Felicia concluded. “Damn.” She traced the condensation on her bottle. “He’s pretty good at making you do what he wants,” she continued slowly. “And when asking nicely doesn’t work…”

Veronica let the silence stand for a moment, then said quietly, “He gets physical.”

Felicia nodded, but didn’t seem inclined to share anything further. Veronica wouldn’t push -- she didn’t need the details of Felicia’s relationship with Berto. Confirmation of her suspicions was enough.

Veronica took a sip of her drink while she thought about whether any other parts of Felicia’s experience with Berto would be helpful. “Do you think that’s why Sonia Rodriguez could have left him?”

“It’s why I did,” Felicia answered, strong and sure. “Never thought I’d be that woman, the one who has to use makeup to cover _bruises_. I used to think women who were abused, they must...” She dropped her gaze, tracing a crack in the table with her thumbnail. “It just didn’t really fit the image of myself I used to have -- my mother didn’t raise me to--” She broke off with a bitter laugh. 

“Felicia,” Veronica said, but she wasn’t sure what she could add that would be at all helpful. Because she’d studied it in undergrad -- the cycle of violence, the efforts that most abusers make to isolate their victims, the lingering societal _well, she must have deserved it_ mentality -- but Felicia had lived it.

“It’s fine.” Felicia waved off her concern. “ _I’m_ fine, really. I got out, and I’m safe, and Berto knows if he touches me again…” She gave a half-shrug. “He stopped even calling me almost two years ago. It didn’t occur to me that he’d just moved on to the next one.”

Veronica nursed her drink, shuffling and reshuffling the new information from Felicia. It was helpful confirmation, and it solidified her resolve to never tell Berto where Sonia Rodriguez was, ever. But Felicia’s story hadn’t actually provided any new leads, any new places to look for the missing woman. 

“Veronica?”

She looked up from her musings. “Yeah?”

Felicia fidgeted for a moment, then sighed. “You said Sonia Rodriguez was undocumented?”

“Well, Berto lied about a few things,” Veronica answered. “But as far as I know, yes. Why?”

“Because,” Felicia said slowly, “I might know someone you should talk to.”

& & &

The motel Veronica chose for the night was… well, it was tolerable, she decided. Probably a very small step up from the Camelot -- no visible bugs or vermin, and that would have to be good enough. It was only for one night.

She settled in, munching on some cheese curls from the vending machine while she fired up her laptop. It’d been an overwhelming day, and she was thoroughly drained, but it wasn’t fair to her dad or to Mac and Wallace to leave them with just _Logan’s okay_ as an update. Since she wasn’t up to one conversation reliving that particular hour of her life, never mind three, she figured an email would suffice.

“Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding,” she muttered. No wireless. She probably shouldn’t have been surprised in a fleabag motel like this. 

With an annoyed huff, she pushed herself off the bed and brought her laptop to the rickety desk wedged in the corner. There was a big, old, slow modem, with maybe 12” of Ethernet cable. “It’s 2005 up in here,” she muttered, tugging the cable closer and plugging it into the port.

Her email program updated slowly, and it was almost the last straw. She came very close to hurling an innocent pen across the room, but placed her hands flat on the desktop, fingers splayed, and counted to seven instead.

Quickly, she composed a summary of what little she knew from Logan’s call and sent it off to her dad, Mac, and Wallace. The email to Mac and her father about Felicia Flores and the Sonia Rodriguez case -- that took a little longer, and when her phone chirped, she gladly abandoned the laptop to check her texts.

It was from Logan. _Not sure on timing yet, but likely flying back tomorrow with Gonzo_.

And more conflicting emotions to add to her general, exhausted instability. She couldn’t wait to see him, but the reason for his early return was tragic. Her initial reaction was relief that Logan would be home, with her, while he mourned his friend -- but what if it would be easier for him to be surrounded by his squadron mates?

Veronica pushed that unhelpful thought away.

_I’ll be back tomorrow, too. I can pick you up after 4_. she answered, dropping back down onto the bed and grabbing another cheese curl.

He replied quickly. _Back from where?_

Before she’d finished typing her response, her phone rang and she smiled at his picture. “Hi,” she said.

“Seemed stupid to waste time typing,” he said. “I’ve only got a few minutes.” He sounded better than earlier, less shocked, more… tired and sad. 

So maybe _better_ wasn’t the word. “How are you doing?”

“I’ll live,” he answered with a hint of bitterness. He sighed. “I’m sorry. That was…”

“You’re allowed to be upset, Logan,” she answered. “And I can be a pretty good punching bag.” As she said it, she knew it was wrong, knew that neither of them were in a place where that particular imagery would be anything but upsetting. “Yeah, sorry. Bad metaphor. I’m…”

“Upset,” he offered, and she was gratified to hear the flash of amusement in his tone.

It was a relief that they could press each other’s buttons -- however unintentionally -- _without_ setting off a full-scale fight these days. “Yeah,” she admitted. “But let’s not worry about me.”

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Sacramento. Missing persons case that’s gone a little off the rails. I have more to do here tomorrow, but I land in San Diego at 3:30.”

“A little off the rails how?” he asked, concerned, and she wished she’d kept her explanation shorter and less interesting -- the last thing he needed right now was to be worried about her.

“Nothing dangerous,” she assured him, and aside from the unlikely possibility that MS-17 would turn out to have some connection to the case, that was mostly the truth. “Just… the client isn’t who he presented himself to be.”

Normally, he would push. Logan’s curiosity, particularly when it came to anything having to do with her, was nearly as insatiable as her own. But tonight he simply said. “Be careful.”

“I am.” She considered telling him that -- aside from when she had to travel by plane -- she’d started carrying a gun just to make extra sure of her safety. But she wasn’t exactly sure how he would take that news. He of all people knew how much she disliked guns, so he probably wouldn’t find it reassuring. 

She flopped back onto the mattress, and slung her free arm across her eyes to block out the world. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.” He stopped, but she didn’t speak, letting the silence stand until he could say what he needed. “Is it -- is the accident on the news?”

“AP and Reuters had it earlier today,” she answered slowly. “So probably. I haven’t checked the cable stations.” She hadn’t been able to bear the thought of it earlier, when she _didn’t_ know, and she hadn’t wanted to since, now that she knew about Gonzo.

“I…” He made a frustrated noise. “Goddamnit. I just don’t want to be a distraction at the-- the funeral. With the press, I mean.”

“Oh, Logan.” Veronica cursed silently. It hadn’t occurred to her to even worry about the paparazzi _or_ the legitimate press. Logan’s refusal to talk after Stu Cobbler’s arrest and his near-immediate deployment had left most of the paparazzi with nothing to cover. They appeared every once in a while now that he was back -- _Son of a Movie Star, New Girlfriend Have Romantic San Diego Dinner_ and other such scintillating stories to generate page views. But it was nothing like the swarm of flashbulbs and shouted questions back when she’d first arrived in Neptune. “Do you really think they’ll cover this -- I mean, your connection to Gonzo?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I hope not. This isn’t about me.” There was a cold tightness to his words as he spoke. “A good man is dead, and anything – any _one_ \-- who tries to take the focus off of Gonzo…” He blew out a frustrated breath, and some of the fight was gone from his words when he said, “Maybe I should just skip the funeral.” 

“Logan, no,” she protested immediately. Because funerals were for the living, for the loved ones, and she would be damned if those leeches with cameras and intrusive questions would deny him that.

“If they let the press into the funeral, there could be a camera…” he trailed off, and she got it, finally. A Logan-cam. He was worried that the less reputable news organizations might live-stream him during the service. 

It wasn’t an entirely unreasonable fear. She remembered the chaos around Lynn Echolls’ death, the breathless coverage, the faux sympathy as they splashed pictures of a seventeen-year-old kid mourning his mother all over the glossy magazines. It was awful and intrusive, and they’d still been mostly estranged at that point, but she knew him well enough to see through him, to see how badly he was hurting.

It was worse after Aaron’s murder, and again after Carrie’s death. The paparazzi hounded him, printing any picture that made him look angry or sad or -- really anything other than placid. For whatever reason, the press pushed all of its unending hunger for more tragedy, more death, more scandal onto Logan, instead of the all-too-eager Trina. Maybe that shouldn’t surprise anyone, though -- fame-whoring is much less interesting than an angry, hurt, orphaned teenager under semi-regular suspicion of wrongdoing.

The press had followed him breathlessly every other time something awful happened to the people in his life. Why would Logan expect anything different this time around?

“You have to go to the funeral, Logan. Gonzo is your -- is important to you.” She stumbled a bit over what tense to use, wincing. “We’ll figure it out. I promise.” 

He didn’t answer immediately. “Yeah, okay.”

“Really, Logan, let me worry about that.” A task she could handle and be responsible for and focus on that would actually help him in some small way? _Sign me up_ , she thought.

“Thanks.” 

“Anything I can do, Logan,” she promised, her voice low and steady. “You know I’ll do it.”

& & &

Veronica felt better, calmer, after talking to Logan, but she still had some trouble falling asleep. She figured at some point she was just _too_ exhausted to sleep, and took a quick, pointless walk around the nearly deserted parking lot, pausing to evaluate the contents of the sad, half-stocked vending machine. None of the prepackaged snacks were at all enticing, though Veronica stood there longer than strictly necessary, lulled by the machine’s low hum.

Her little adventure did nothing to make her sleepier -- it just left her cold and bleary-eyed.

She remembered seeing the red alarm clock numbers blink over to 2:23, and must have fallen into a restless sleep sometime after that. She woke just after 8, feeling basically the _opposite_ of refreshed. Veronica couldn’t really recall her dreams, but knew from the nervous pit of dread in her stomach they hadn’t featured happiness and unicorns.

_Morning_ , she texted him, because she couldn’t not. _See you later_.

A shower helped -- marginally -- and she was able to get on the road to Ceres earlier than she’d planned. Nearly an hour and a half alone with her thoughts, and she couldn’t corral them into any semblance of order, or drown them out with the radio.

Obviously, the search for Sonia Rodriguez had shifted -- Veronica was concerned for her well-being, and wanted to make sure Sonia didn’t need help to _keep away_ from Berto Flores. Because a man who would use what little disposable income he had to hire a PI to locate the woman who’d fled -- well, he probably wasn’t the kind of guy to _stop_ looking, and Veronica needed to make sure that Sonia had the tools to stay gone, to stay safe.

She hadn’t met Sonia, knew very little about her, but something about her predicament touched Veronica. Sonia deserved better than to be forgotten by everyone but her abusive ex-boyfriend. She needed help, and she apparently had very few resources, and Veronica had tossed away life in a comfortable, middle class income bracket to help people exactly like Sonia Rodriguez.

Veronica also needed to talk to her dad, to figure out how to handle Berto. Her ethics training from law school was starting to make it difficult to justify _not_ firing him as a client -- even if she was worried he’d just hire another PI and keep looking. Regardless of the timing, she couldn’t take any more of his money, and would have to refund what he’d already paid so there was no question that they would ever turn over information on Sonia to Berto.

But Veronica couldn’t figure out a way to refund his money _without_ explaining that she knew he was an abusive asshole. Which might be pretty satisfying, actually, but she figured her dad could soften the messaging a bit.

Ceres was a small city just south of Modesto, the main streets straight and laid out in a grid. Veronica found the small health clinic pretty easily -- just past the strangely named Fluffy’s Playground Veterinary and Boarding Services. She parked and studied the building -- small, a little careworn, with faded, bilingual health-related posters in the large windows along the front. 

The small sleigh bells hanging from the doorknob announced her entrance, and Veronica put on her most non-threatening smile. “Hi!” There were a few patients in the waiting area, staring blearily at an old TV mounted on the wall that was playing a soap opera.

“Can I help you?” The receptionist was probably in her early sixties, with close-cropped grey hair and warm brown eyes. She wore a bright purple scrub top with small ducklings on it, and her nametag said “Cristina.”

“I hope so,” Veronica answered. She had considered a cover story, a constructed, sympathetic tale about a long-lost friend. But considering the circumstances, it felt _wrong_ , somehow, to try to trick information out of people who may have helped a woman flee an abuser. She’d decided on the truth, and nothing but the truth -- though carefully presented in the most innocuous manner possible. 

So she simply said, “My name is Veronica, and I’m trying to locate someone who I think may have been a patient here.” She leaned her forearms on the counter and clasped her hands together.

Cristina tilted her head. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid we take patient confidentiality very seriously.”

“I appreciate that,” Veronica said, “I do. But I was hoping you would at least hear me out.” She placed her Mars Investigations card on the counter and slid it to a not-terribly-receptive Cristina.

“A private detective?” Cristina read, skepticism dripping from each word. She glanced behind her, at two nurses who were conferring over a patient file, and then said, “I don’t think we can be of much help.”

Veronica glanced at the waiting area, where a couple of patients were watching Veronica and Cristina’s conversation with open curiosity. She lowered her voice some. “I’m looking for a woman, an undocumented woman, who left what I believe to be an abusive relationship about six months ago. And I want to make sure she’s okay, because he’s looking for her.”

Cristina seemed flustered, and the two nurses drifted closer to listen with coordinating unwelcome expressions in place. The taller of the two women held the patient chart against her chest with folded arms, and fixed Veronica with a pretty impressive scowl.

Veronica turned her attention back to Cristina and pressed on before they could ask her to leave. “I understand that this clinic is one of the few places that undocumented people can go for help. So I thought--”

“How do you know this guy’s looking for her?” the taller nurse demanded.

Veronica winced, but admitted. “He hired me to find her. But--”

The collective noise of disgust from the three women was enough to drown out whatever Veronica was trying to say in her own defense -- and to draw the attention of the few patients in the waiting room who hadn’t already been watching. “You want to keep her safe, huh?” Cristina scoffed. “Safe until you can turn her over to an abuser?”

“No,” Veronica protested, flushing. “I swear, I didn’t know he was abusive until I’d started looking for Sonia. I would never--” She stopped, taking in the way Cristina’s fingers tightened on the Mars Investigation business card when Veronica said Sonia’s name. “Do you know Sonia Rodriguez?” she asked, pitching her voice low so the curious patients in the waiting room couldn’t overhear. Veronica wanted to protect Sonia’s privacy as much as possible.

The tall, scowling nurse stepped forward and dropped her hand onto Cristina’s shoulder. “We don’t release _any_ information on patients to non-family members unless we have that patient’s written authorization.” The nurse smiled coldly. “HIPAA regulations.”

Veronica remembered enough about HIPAA to know it protected the privacy of medical patients -- and provided abundant cover for the health clinic to refuse to talk to her. But she had to try again. “I realize how this sounds,” she said, focusing on Cristina, “but I am trying to help Sonia. I would _never_ give her location to Berto.” She stopped, shook her head. “Once I realized the situation, that Berto had played me? I knew I needed to find Sonia, because if I don’t get results, Berto can just hire someone else who will. And who’s going to protect Sonia when the _next_ PI has no qualms about Berto’s intentions?”

Cristina looked pensive, studying Veronica’s face. _Almost_ , Veronica thought, _I almost have her_. 

But before Cristina could react, the tall nurse squeezed her shoulder and said to Veronica, “I think you should go.”

Veronica kept her gaze on Cristina. “I’m just trying to help her. Really.”

“Do I need to call the cops?” 

Veronica kept her features calm, resisting the urge to snap back at the nurse. “Fine. I’ll go.” She stepped back, adjusted her bag on her shoulder. “Thank you for your time.”

Frustrated, Veronica pushed through the door and stepped out into the sunshine.

& & &

Veronica’s truncated conversation with the receptionist at the small, run-down clinic in Modesto went just about as poorly as at the Ceres clinic, though without the spark of recognition when Veronica said Sonia’s name. 

So actually worse than Ceres.

Veronica _knew_ that Cristina -- and maybe those nurses -- had met Sonia, and knew her well enough to remember her nearly six months after Sonia left town. It was the first actual lead she’d dug up on Sonia, and they’d shut her down immediately. And the stonewalling was actively pissing her off. Why couldn’t they see she was trying to help?

During the drive back up to Sacramento, Veronica tried her dad to catch him up, but got his voicemail. “Dad, we need to talk about the Sonia Rodriguez case. I’ll be back in Neptune around 4:30.”

She tried Mac next, same result. “Mac, I’m headed back. Got what could only very charitably be described as a lead, but you were right about the clinics. Catch up with you later.”

Wallace would be in class this time of day, and Logan hadn’t known when he’d be available, but said he’d call when he could. He hadn’t, and she was nearly twitching with impatience to hear from him. To _see_ him and really believe that he was okay.

But that wasn’t something she could make happen any faster, so she drove back toward Sacramento, hands tense on the steering wheel, and thought about the case. Ceres wasn’t a dead end -- she _knew_ there was information there, and she wanted desperately to stay to ferret it out. But Logan needed her, and she needed him. She turned her rental in at the airport, and made her way through ticketing and security to the gate. 

Her attention caught on the CNN story playing on a monitor a few rows over, and she moved closer so she could hear.

“ _\--accident still being investigated at this hour. Lieutenant Junior Grade Ramon Gonzalez, the pilot killed in yesterday’s accident, was a four-year veteran of the Navy, and most recently flew combat missions in support of U.S. operations in Afghanistan. Lieutenant Gonzalez is survived by his parents, Rosa and Hector Gonzalez, and three younger brothers. He was 26 years old._ ”

Veronica’s throat tightened at the picture of Gonzo, grinning in his olive drab flightsuit, squinting a little against the bright sunshine. How could he be gone? It wasn’t fair. 

Her sorrow shifted along with the image -- CNN faded in a picture of three pilots, walking back from the airstrip and laughing together. Gonzo, Sammy, and Logan, looking like an advertisement for the Navy with their sunglasses and cocky cheerfulness.

“No, no, no,” she muttered, but she knew what was coming next.

“ _You may remember the story of Logan Echolls, son of murdered movie star Aaron Echolls, who joined the Navy six years ago, and was more recently -- and, as it turned out, mistakenly -- accused of killing Bonnie DeVille. Logan Echolls and Ramon Gonzalez are in the same squadron, and sources tell us Echolls was present in Nevada at the time of the accident._ ”

“Fuck,” Veronica said, dropping into an empty seat. She pulled out her phone and texted Mac: _Gonna need some help on something else. CNN has Logan’s picture with Gonzo._

Moments later, Mac texted back, _Damn. Text when you land._

The flight was uneventful, vaguely antiseptic air, stale peanuts, and a charming patch of turbulence. Once they landed and she could turn on her phone, Veronica was irrationally panicked until it powered up and started receiving messages and notifications. Nothing world-alteringly terrifying this time, and she sucked in a calming breath.

She opened a text from Logan first: _ETA 1830 @ NAS._

She grinned at the message, at his tendency to fall back into military jargon whenever he was on duty, and texted back, _Roger that. ;)_

_Smartass_ , he answered quickly. _Pick me up?_

_Always. I’ll need a pass_. For some reason, the Navy wasn’t big on letting random, unescorted civilians onto their bases.

Veronica tucked her phone into her back pocket and joined the passengers moving off the plane, up the jetway, and into the airport. And because she was tired and drained and expecting to cab it home, she nearly walked past him.

“So unobservant, Mars,” Wallace commented, arms crossed over his classroom-appropriate white dress shirt and surprisingly orange tie. He grinned at her even as he shook his head in mock disapproval. “Thought you were supposed to be some kind of private eye.”

She jerked to a stop, beaming at him almost involuntarily. “Wallace!” Warmth and home and all kinds of related emotions bubbled up, and she curled her fingernails into her palms, cursing her lack of emotional stability the last 24 hours. 

“Thought you could use a lift.” He shrugged one shoulder. “After yesterday.”

Veronica punched his arm lightly, trying to cover her reaction to his thoughtfulness. “You’re the mushiest, Wallace,” she said, her voice just a little bit wobbly.

But he knew her too well to be fooled. He rolled his eyes at her, and held out his arms. “C’mon.”

Her breath hitched as she stepped into his embrace. Goddamn, did she need a hug. “Thanks, bestie,” she said, but it wasn’t really a joke.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, patting her shoulder blade while she squeezed him tight.

The scent of his aftershave brought back a dozen nights in college, sitting side by side on his bed, studying together, despite not sharing any classes. She’d had no idea it would turn out to be one of the best decisions of her life when she’d cut a random stranger down from a flagpole, but Wallace was her rock. Reluctantly, Veronica released him. “I kinda needed that,” she admitted. 

Wallace nodded slowly, studying her. “Really,” he said, serious and supportive now, “are you okay?”

“I am,” she answered, and it was true enough. She was frustrated by the case, and she needed to see Logan with her own eyes before she could exorcise the last of yesterday’s blind panic, but she was… okay. “Logan’s coming back today, I guess for the -- the funeral.”

Wallace’s hand landed lightly on her lower back, and he ushered her toward the doors. “It’s good that you’ll see him. I _know_ you’re still shook up.”

He was right, of course, but she also didn’t really want to dwell on it. “I’m okay. Though,” she added with a playful smile, “I wouldn’t turn down some homemade snickerdoodles.”

Wallace snickered. “You would if they were made in my home by _me_.”

Which was -- true, actually. Wallace was terrible in the kitchen, to his mother’s everlasting despair. 

They walked in companionable silence to his car, a sleek black crossover with a _kicking_ sound system. Or so he claimed. Sounded like any other sound system to her. 

Wallace filled their drive back to Neptune with silly stories about his team. “Oh!” she said, and he stopped mid-sentence. “Sorry,” she apologized.

“No, by all means,” he answered, because he was Wallace and he knew she got like this sometimes. Even when she tried not to.

So she gave him an apologetic shrug and asked, “Did my dad happen to mention to you that he’s thinking of moving?”

Wallace gave her a puzzled look. “Yeah. Why?”

“He _did_?” She reached over and thwacked his arm. “And you didn’t _tell_ me?”

“Why would I get home from having a beer with your dad and call you to report every last thing we talked about? How does that make sense?”

She brushed his point aside, even though the strange bromance between her father and her best friend still kind of weirded her out. It was cute that they hung out and watched sports sometimes, but maybe… _weird_ cute. “I mean -- I didn’t know he was worried about money.”

Now he was looking at her like she was crazy. “You think your dad and I discuss our finances? Hate to disappoint you, Mars.”

“I’m just worried about him,” she explained. “I didn’t really consult him before hiring Mac. Or myself, I guess.” And the way the Sonia Rodriguez case was going, Veronica was just spilling more red ink into their ledgers.

Wallace seemed untroubled. “He could’ve just fired you. You know, if he disagreed with your personnel decisions.”

“Your confidence in me is just,” she brought a hand to her throat, pretending to be choked up, “ _overwhelming_.” 

Wallace pulled up to the curb in front of The Pinnacle’s main entrance and put the car in park. “You have a terrible idea and you want me to talk you out of it, right?”

“No.” It wasn’t a _terrible_ idea. Just probably unworkable.

“Spit it out, Mars.”

Veronica tapped her nail against the door handle, considering whether she should even verbalize this. “Do you think he’d notice if I just…” she shrugged, knowing the answer before she even finished the question, “like, added some money to his accounts?”

“Are you even serious?” he asked, incredulous.

“Well,” she hesitated. Because, no. Her father was so attuned to following the money, there’s no way he would miss a sudden increase in his balances. Dammit.

“Veronica, do you and Logan have joint bank accounts?”

“No! Not at all,” she answered immediately. Except-- “Just the account for condo stuff, so that we can both contribute. But all of those, you know, 09er-level trusts and stocks and stuff -- those are Logan’s.” She didn’t want to get into exactly why this line of questioning freaked her out. And then, belatedly, she wondered why he’d asked. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, why _don’t_ you share some of that stuff?” Wallace pressed. “I mean, you’re living together. Here. In this luxury building. In a _penthouse_.”

“Enough,” she protested, defensive in the way she always was when someone pointed out she was living well above her (former) station. Not because she felt she wasn’t good enough to walk among the snooty 09er types, but because it felt a little like selling out. “You know the condo was a compromise.”

“Sure,” Wallace agreed with a grin, “he wanted something beachy and hella-expensive, and you wanted a dingy old studio across the street from Mars Investigations.” 

“That’s a _bit_ of an exaggeration.” She’d wanted a _one-bedroom_ apartment, not a studio. New York had conditioned her to expect very little square footage for her money, and had instilled a keen appreciation for living within her means. She and Logan were pretty great together, but her means and Logan’s means were incredibly mismatched.

Wallace nodded. “Sure. And what was your argument at the time?”

Veronica stared at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“You wanted a cheaper place, somewhere you could handle half the rent in addition to your student loans, and Logan wanted to just buy a place with his bazillions of dollars, right?” 

Veronica wrinkled her nose. “ _Bazillions_ , really?”

He continued, ignoring her protest, “I’m pretty sure your argument was something like,” he adopted a terrible falsetto and Valley Girl inflection, “ _I’m a strong, independent woman, and I support myself_ \--”

“Please stop doing your terrible impression of me,” she interrupted with a grimace. “I don’t talk like Cher Horowitz.”

“Missing the point.” Wallace sounded genuinely frustrated. “Keith Mars is a proud man, Veronica. He wants to be independent, just like you did.” He held up a hand to still her protests. “Like you _do_. But does it really matter the square footage if he likes where he’s living?”

Which sounded remarkably like the kind of thing she would expect _herself_ to be saying. But-- “It’s not about prestige, Wallace. I want him to be happy.”

“I know.” Wallace touched her knee briefly. “I do. Just -- I don’t think you should push him on this kind of thing.”

She watched him for a moment, while she tried her best to poke holes in his argument. But he had a decent point. “You’re pretty smart sometimes, you know that, Fennel?”

“Gotta be,” he answered, grinning now. “Gotta mold those young minds.”

Impulsively, she leaned over and gave him a quick hug. “Thanks.” 

“Seriously, Veronica,” Wallace said. “I’m terrible at this funeral stuff, but if there’s anything I can do for you guys,” he shrugged. “You name it.”

She paused, her hand on the door handle, and looked back over at him. “Okay. Will do.”

& & &

When Veronica headed to the base for Logan, she grabbed the keys to his BMW. She wasn’t sure what he’d need, how he’d be feeling. Just being back in Neptune certainly wouldn’t do anything to make him feel better, but aggressive driving sometimes did.

She checked in at the guard gate, allowed on base by herself only with the drive-on pass he’d called in for her. Considering all that’d been going on the past day, she’d half-expected Logan to have forgotten, and to be turned away at the gate.

It was near sunset, the sky darkening with a pale pink and orange glow to the west. Veronica drove to the airstrip, parking where Logan did on flight days. He’d given her an abbreviated tour of his squadron’s operations building a few months earlier, showed her what he could, but tonight she waited outside with the car. 

Veronica wanted desperately to see him, needed to feel him, real and solid and alive in her arms after the panicked uncertainty of yesterday. But this wasn’t about her, and she would wait for him to be ready.

Only four pilots from Logan’s squadron had been selected for the war games; the three remaining were all released to accompany Gonzo’s body back home. Logan and Sammy and Reza flew their jets back, escorting the C-2 cargo plane that held a lone, flag-covered casket. The rest of their unit joined them on the flightline for a small ceremony when they landed, just Gonzo’s squadron. 

Veronica still didn’t feel like she fully understand the military, but she’d learned enough to know that Logan’s unit was family. And she would be there for Logan in whatever way he needed, but she didn’t want to intrude on their shared grief.

She clearly wasn’t the only significant other who’d come to the same conclusion -- there were a few women in the parking lot, and a couple men, standing in small, somber clumps. Veronica was never one to grieve in public, and she felt a strange relief that she didn’t know the others well enough to be expected to join them. 

It was still fairly warm even as the sun edged lower in the sky, but Veronica shivered a little and pulled her hoodie more tightly around her. It was old and worn, the bright green faded to a more muted tone now -- but it was comfortable and familiar, and exactly what she’d needed when she arrived home.

Two men emerged from the squadron building, slow and somber; the rest of the unit followed. Veronica spotted Logan easily, and recognized that he was holding himself in check just by the set of his shoulders. She knew the feeling -- that brittle fear that you might just collapse under the weight of holding it together.

When he saw her, he dipped his chin, turned to Sammy and Reza to shake their hands, and peeled away from the group. Once he drew closer, Veronica began moving toward him, unable to hold herself back anymore. “Logan,” she said, and wrapped her arms around his ribcage. He held her tightly, silently, curling into her so he could press his forehead to her shoulder.

His breathing was harsh and uneven; he was close to losing it. He needed a safe place to come apart, now that he’d made it through all the tasks involved in the initial investigation and escorting his fallen brother back home. 

“The beach?” she murmured, her hands easing along his back, smoothing his rumpled blue henley. He needed somewhere to be alone, or alone with her. And the ocean was home for him, timeless and soothing.

He nodded against her, his hair tickling her neck, then pulled back. “Thanks,” he said, with wet, hurt eyes. He kissed her, soft but desperate, and she tried not to escalate. But she’d thought she lost him, and he was _here_ and safe, and she needed a moment to let that all sink back in. His fingers were rough on her hips.

When he finally straightened, he took a steadying breath and circled the car, dumping his small rucksack into the backseat. He dropped into the passenger seat. She didn’t comment, but he answered her question anyway. “Didn’t get much sleep.” 

Veronica nodded and swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat, picturing him tossing and turning, uncomfortable and alone in a bunk. She wished she’d been there. It wasn’t fair that he’d taken such good care of her when her father’d been badly injured, and she couldn’t return the care and support when he lost a friend. “Boulder Beach?” she suggested.

“Sure.” He slouched low in the seat, resting his head against the headrest, his gaze blankly fixed out the passenger side window as she drove.

Boulder Beach was about halfway between San Diego and Neptune, and not terribly crowded this time of night, as the last of the dusky orange glow faded over the water. Veronica parked and pocketed the keys, joining Logan in front of the car. He stood stiffly, looking out at the water for a long moment. The ocean breeze pressed his shirt flush against his body, excess material rippling along his rib cage. 

Then he sat on the bumper to take off his shoes and socks and looked up at her. “Walk with me?” Veronica slipped her shoes off, and they tossed the discarded footwear in the trunk.

The wind blew in hard off the water, and she wished she’d thought to bring a hair tie. Silently, they walked out onto the soft sand, cool and smooth against their feet in the early evening dimness. Two children off to their left shrieked and chased each other around their parents, bright, happy sounds scattered among the crashing of the waves.

Logan took her hand and angled further to the right, toward the rocky outcroppings that gave the beach its name. The tide was receding, and the wet rocks shimmered a bit, beautiful and strangely abandoned. Veronica didn’t have the same depth of affection for the ocean as Logan, but she found the reliable pounding of the waves soothing.

His pace was steady and deliberate, and she matched her stride to his to keep up. As they drew closer to the boulders, she realized his breathing had changed. When she looked over at him, tears were running, unchecked, down his face.

“Logan.” Her voice was low, just audible over the crash of the waves.

He glanced at her, tried to smile for her, but crumpled. 

Veronica reached for him. And then he was on one knee, arms wrapped low on her hips, his face pressed to her abdomen as he cried.

& & &

Veronica was sprawled on her back in the cool sand, Logan curled against her, his damp face still pressed to the crook of her neck, when her stomach gave a loud grumble.

Logan lifted his head and met her gaze for a moment, and huffed a laugh. She tried not to, but once she started, she was helpless to stop. She rolled onto her side, into his chest, and they laughed against each other. It was such a relief after the past day, and after the past hour of intense grief.

Logan reached a hand up, traced one finger along her jaw. His eyes were still a little red, but the tension in his jaw had eased some. “Come on,” he said, pausing to kiss her almost chastely. “Let’s get you fed.”

“We’re both covered in sand,” Veronica pointed out. “Let’s just head home. I’ll make something.”

“You?” Logan sat up, pulling her with him. “No, thanks. I’ll cook.”

For that, Veronica used his shoulder to push herself upright. “I am a perfectly adequate cook.” She brushed her clothes, the sand streaming off of her with a whisper. 

With that easy grace of his, Logan jumped to his feet, ignoring the sand that clung to his shirt and down the side of his neck. She reached up to brush it away. “Exactly,” he said, catching her hand to kiss her knuckle. “When I want a _perfectly adequate_ meal, I’ll let you know.” He reached for her, but she skirted out of his grasp.

“Oh, no way. Not after you insulted my domestic skills.” It was a silly argument, but they both needed a breather from the heavy stuff, a chance to catch their breath. 

The wind kicked up, and Veronica turned away from the water, her hair whipping against her face. Logan caught up to her, fingers skimming along her shoulder blade before settling against her hip. “I think you should concentrate on the part where I said I’d cook for you.”

She grinned. “That part doesn’t suck.” He was a pretty good cook, these days. Just another of those things about the grown up version of him that had left her pleasantly surprised. Veronica wondered, sometimes, whether her adult self ever surprised him in the same way.

She watched him as they trudged back through the sand, evaluating his mood. He was calmer, like he’d gotten the worst of his grief out, at least for the moment. But they’d both been through the wringer enough to know that it hits you in waves, unpredictable and cruel.

They gathered their shoes from the trunk, but Veronica didn’t bother to put hers back on. Logan gave her an amused look and carefully pulled on his socks, fastidiously tied his shoelaces. Then he looked at her expectantly. “Keys?”

“Oh, _now_ you want to drive?” she grumbled, but handed over them over. Driving, for Logan, could be therapy on days like this.

True to form, he avoided the highways, weaving his way through La Jolla and into Neptune. At a stoplight just before they reached downtown, pulsating blue and red lights off to the right caught Veronica’s attention. Beyond them, an eerie glow lit the sky “Logan.”

“Fire, looks like,” he said after a moment. 

It was too dark to really make out the details this far away, but Veronica could smell smoke, thick and acrid and terrifying. She knew, with a sick, sudden clarity, exactly what was in flames. “Go right,” she ordered, fumbling on the floor for her shoes. 

Logan waved an apology to nearby drivers and cut over a lane, making the requested right turn before asking, “What is it?”

Veronica hoped she was wrong, but as they drew closer to the fire trucks, all she got was confirmation. “Oh, God. It’s Weevil’s shop,” she said, trying to process this horrible reality, trying to come up with a reason other than MS-17. Other than this being _her fault_ for dragging Weevil into things.

Logan pulled to a stop across the street, and Veronica jumped out before she really thought things through. “I’ll be right back.”

“Veronica,” Logan called after her.

As she approached the burning building, she could feel the heat, and she was a little stunned by how loud the fire was -- crackling and roaring and snapping in its fury. She couldn’t get very close, ringed as it was by fire trucks, hoses, and fire fighters, but she could see that the office and nearly half of the garage were fully ablaze. Firefighters had already smashed all the windows; water poured over and into the structure from six or seven fire hoses. 

The firefighters moved with calm quickness, their shouted instructions to each other betraying not a hint of fear. Meanwhile, the scared 17-year-old Veronica in her head kept telling her to _RUN RUN RIGHT NOW_.

“No,” she told herself, shaking and nearly overwhelmed by the thick smoke. Absently, she touched the rough patch of skin above her left wrist, the burn scar faded as much as it ever would all these years later.

She tore her attention from the flames, scanning the firefighters and the small, awed crowd -- and then she saw Weevil. He was in the parking lot of the insurance broker next door, slumped on the sidewalk, his head in his hands.

Veronica pushed through the crowd, made her way to him. It was a little quieter there, so she didn’t have to raise her voice. “Weevil.” She stopped several feet away, not sure whether he would welcome her intrusion.

This was his tragedy, but it was almost certainly her fault.

“Weevil, what happened?”

When he finally looked up at her, Veronica was stunned to see cold rage instead of the despair she’d been expecting. And then he was standing, fists clenched. “What happened?” he repeated, incredulous. “What the fuck do you _think_ happened, V?”

“Weevil--”

“These motherfuckers think they can come down here, torch my-- _ruin_ my shop?” he asked, sneering. “With no consequences?”

“Weevil, no.” Veronica stepped forward, one hand reaching for him. She had to stop this before it started, talk him out of doing anything crazy. “You can’t--”

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” Weevil thundered. Veronica recoiled, the weight of her own guilt hitting much harder than his words. “Haven’t you done enough?”

“Hey,” Logan shouted, ten yards away and closing fast. “Get the fuck away from her!”

Shit. Veronica turned, one pleading hand held out toward him. “Logan--”

“Oh, that’s just _perfect_ ,” Weevil shot back, ignoring her to turn his rage on Logan. “Of _course_ you’d show up.”

Veronica could feel the situation spinning away from her, their old resentments and fresh traumas pushing this confrontation to bad places. “Hey!” she shouted, stepping in between them, one hand on Logan’s chest. He was breathing hard, his muscles tense beneath her fingers.

Logan glanced to her, then back to Weevil, practically vibrating with the effort it took to restrain himself. But he grit his teeth and moderated his tone somewhat. “I just need you to calm down.”

“Oh, yeah?” Weevil shook his head, lifted a dismissive hand in Logan’s direction. “I should calm down while my livelihood _burns to the ground_ behind me?”

Veronica knew Weevil, recognized the slight hitch in his voice, and knew he would never forgive himself if he showed any kind of weakness before Logan. She turned to Logan, considering several options quickly. “Please -- call my dad and ask him to meet us here?” she asked, figuring that would kill two birds with one stone. Because Logan didn’t need to be shouted at by Weevil, and he didn’t need to spend hours at a fire today.

Goddamnit, why did it have to be _fire_?

Logan resisted like she knew he would. “Veronica--”

“It’s okay,” she assured him. “Please.” Logan shot one more blistering look at Weevil, then turned and took a few steps to make the call.

“What’s the Sheriff gonna do about MS-17, V?”

Veronica took a breath, told herself to cut him some slack given the situation. “He’s going to help you with the investigation,” she explained in clipped tones. “Unless you were planning to sic Neptune’s inept cops on a vicious gang?”

“Ain’t a problem for the cops,” Weevil answered, and she felt a slow, creeping dread. Her hands shook and she clenched them together, as if she were praying

“Weevil, you can’t start a gang war with MS-17. They’re--”

“ _Start_?” Weevil flung an arm in the direction of the fire. “That looks an awful lot like the first shot, V.” He took a few steps away from her, hands on his hips, shaking his head as he watched his shop burn.

Veronica followed, not letting the topic drop. “The PCHers boost cars, maybe -- what, some robbery?” she demanded, angry now. “MS-17 are _weapons traffickers_ , Weevil. Be reasonable.”

He kept himself turned partially away, but she knew he was at least listening to her. Whether he’d come to the conclusion that she was right -- that was an open question. And he was still fairly combative, so she was surprised when his next question betrayed something in the neighborhood of hurt feelings. “Why your dad?”

“What?” she asked.

He cut her a quick glance, his jaw tight. “You got someplace better to be?”

Veronica paused, trying to figure out how to answer him. She didn’t want to leave, knew she deserved to stand here and watch, and let Weevil rage at her. “I want to stay,” she answered finally, “I really do, but I need to take Logan home. He--”

“Should’ve known,” Weevil interrupted bitterly. “Always the same story with you and him, V. Nothing else matters.”

Stung, Veronica resisted the urge to snap back at him. “That’s not true. Tonight’s just--” Veronica glanced at Logan to make sure he was occupied. More than a little angry herself at the idea that she had to explain something this personal to Weevil, Veronica let her irritation bleed into her voice when she said, “A pilot in his unit died yesterday.”

Weevil flicked his gaze to Logan and back. “Yeah? Seems like a lot of people he cares about end up dead. Maybe you’re the one that needs to be reasonable.”

She wanted to yell, to argue, to tell him to open his eyes and see the man Logan had become, but it wasn’t the time. Goddamnit. She felt Logan behind her.

“He said he’ll be here in ten minutes,” Logan said, his tone even, but she could hear the stress and effort it was costing him.

“Thanks.” Veronica reached for his hand, tangling her fingers with his.

Weevil continued to ignore them, watching the firefighters battle the blaze. It was hard to tell, yet, who would win. She wasn’t an expert, but it seemed like they’d kept it from spreading further through the garage.

“Weevil,” Veronica said, quieter now. “Where’s Jade?”

His mouth twisted. He swallowed hard, then recovered. “At home with Valentina.” He was still angry, but at least he was no longer shouting. But then he sighed and his voice sounded like broken glass when he added, “They don’t need to see this.”

It was so terrible to hear him like that, and Veronica considered that maybe things were less awful when he was yelling.

Her eyes stung from the smoke. And then she and Logan and Weevil stood in a crooked line and watched the shop burn.

& & &

END CHAPTER FOUR


	5. Chapter 5

The small blue numbers on Logan’s alarm clock glowed 9:17 into the dark bedroom, but Logan had already fallen asleep. With sweat cooling rapidly on her skin, Veronica was starting to get cold. She shifted carefully against him, tugging the sheet out from under her hip. He didn’t move, but she lifted her head to make sure she hadn’t woken him, then put her ear against his chest, listening to the reassuring thump of his heartbeat.

He lay sprawled on his back, his right arm under her pillow, his left hand tangled in her right, resting beside his hip. He almost never slept on his back, but he was _exhausted_. Also, she thought the desperate, enthusiastic sex they’d had as soon as they walked in the door had probably helped him drop off quickly.

Veronica lay draped against his side, plastered to him like a postage stamp and feeling pretty sated herself. And she was rather drained from the past day, but for some reason, she was still too keyed up to drift off to sleep. She had no particular desire to move away from him in the near future, so she just tilted her head a bit to watch him. 

His face was softer in sleep, the angular lines easing a bit, reminding her of the boy she’d fallen in love with a decade ago. She’d become so used to grown up Logan, adult Logan, that these occasional reminders of the high school version were a little disorienting. 

She turned and pressed a kiss to his chest, just below his collarbone, still overwhelmed with gratitude that he was actually home, warm skin over hard muscle, breathing softly in their bed. _Safe_.

Somewhere nearby, her phone buzzed, and the tiny blue notification light blinked its faint glow onto the ceiling of their darkened bedroom. _You can ignore that_ , she told herself. _Just lie here with your hot boyfriend and think peaceful thoughts_.

Less than ten seconds passed before she slowly eased her hand from his and rolled onto her back. She pushed herself upright to scan the room, locating her pants just beyond the foot of the bed, with her phone lying most of the way out of the back pocket. Carefully, she slid out of bed, shivering a little now that she wasn’t pressed up against Logan’s warmth. She hesitated as he grumbled something and rolled to his side, pressing his face into the pillow. His breathing evened again, and she rescued her phone. 

The text was from her dad, and she felt a little strange standing in the middle of her bedroom naked while reading it: _Fire’s out. Building could be a total loss_.

She swallowed a groan. _That sucks. How’s Weevil?_

_Angry. Want me to stop by?_

Veronica glanced at Logan. It was only 9:30, and she and her dad had meant to touch base on the Sonia Rodriguez case tonight before the fire interrupted everyone’s plans. And she definitely wanted whatever information her dad had gathered on the cause of the fire -- and how Weevil was handling it.

Also, she was still really hungry, since she and Logan had skipped dinner for sex. Might as well make something to eat and catch up with her dad. _Sure_.

_Be there in 10_.

“Shit,” Veronica muttered, figuring she should probably make an effort to look not _quite_ so blissfully post-coital. 

She moved back to the bed, one hand braced on the mattress so she could lean down and kiss Logan’s forehead. “I love you,” she murmured against his skin. Sometimes she didn’t like what it said about her that it was so much easier to say it when he couldn’t hear her.

Standing, she glanced around at their discarded clothing, which formed a small trail from the bedroom door to the bed. They’d been desperate for each other when they’d walked in the door, too focused on reconnecting to pay attention to anything else. She gathered the clothes and dumped everything but her jeans in the hamper, then pulled one of Logan’s old t-shirts from the dresser.

Dressing quickly, Veronica grabbed her phone and quietly made her way out of the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind her. She ran a hand through her hair as she crossed to the kitchen, downing half a glass of water, then refilling it. She opened the cabinet to evaluate her choices. Preferably something fast, but enough for her dad and Logan if either of them were hungry. 

Almost as soon as she put a pot of water on the stovetop to boil, her phone rang -- the security desk, confirming permission to allow her father up. 

She grabbed a box of penne from the cupboard and tossed it onto the countertop, then moved to unlock the door. Belatedly she noticed her hoodie and the t-shirt she’d been wearing earlier in a little pile in the entry, about two steps away from the rucksack Logan had dropped carelessly just inside the door. “Yikes,” she said, and snatched them up, tucking the shirt inside the hoodie before laying it on a side table, then moving the bag to lean purposefully against the wall.

It was stupid, but her dad was still pretty squeamish about the idea of his only daughter having an active (and quite satisfying) sex life. As much as she teased him on occasion, she kind of understood -- the last thing she’d want to see upon arriving at her dad’s house was a carelessly discarded tie and dress shirt or, God forbid, _boxers_.

“Blech,” she said, and shuddered a little at the thought.

Her dad knocked softly. Of course he arrived while she was still struggling to bleach _that_ mental image from her mind.

Veronica took a breath and tried to list the Padres roster instead. “Hi, dad,” she said. “What’s the second baseman’s name again?”

He gave her a strange look, but stepped into the apartment and pushed the door closed behind him. “Oh, honey,” he said, and folded her into a hug that felt like the best part of childhood. “I’m sorry I wasn’t nearby yesterday.” His arms tightened around her. “I was worried about you.”

She smiled, her cheek pressed against the soft cotton of his shirt, and squeezed him back. “I’m sorry, too. It was…” she pulled back, and even now, with Logan sleeping peacefully in the next room, the depth and breadth of her panic the day before was all too easy to relive, if she let herself. “It was awful. But he’s alive.” Her voice still shook a little, because the fact that she had to _say_ it meant there had been some possibility that he _wasn’t_ alive, and that was just… She couldn’t deal with that, so she would just lock it away somewhere and keep moving.

“Mmmhmm.” Her dad nodded, still watching her closely. “And how is he?”

“Sleeping,” she said, her gaze sliding away from his. “Do you want a beer?” she deflected.

“Sure.” He followed her into the kitchen and happily accepted a Yuengling. She opened both bottles, and he settled onto the stools at the granite breakfast bar while she moved to the stove to add salt to the water. 

“That fire -- it was arson,” he said.

Veronica pulled a jar of sauce from the cabinet and set it down with a thud. “They’re sure? So quickly?”

“No, nothing official,” he admitted. “But I talked to Candy -- she’s a fire investigator with the department -- and she said the speed and strength of the fire were consistent with excessive use of accelerants.”

She’d already guessed that, but confirmation just made her feel worse. “Weevil thinks it was MS-17,” she ventured, her gaze trained on the water, which was _still_ not boiling.

“So do I.”

“Dammit.”

“Veronica, this isn’t your fault.”

She laughed outright, angrily tearing open the box of penne. It ripped unevenly, and she made a frustrated noise, picking at the cardboard with her thumbnail. “Yeah? How do you figure?”

“You’re not a member of a violent gang, and you didn’t light the match,” her father pointed out, his tone patient and even. And it was true enough, but pretty much beside the point.

“Apparently MS-17 up in LA and the San Diego PCHers had some kind of dust up a couple years ago, but they would never have even _heard_ of Weevil if I hadn’t dragged him to Long Beach.”

Keith’s mouth tightened, and he looked away for a long moment, as if weighing the wisdom of arguing with her on the topic. “I feel badly for Weevil, but-- No, honey, let me finish.” He laid a hand on her forearm, waiting for her acquiescence. “I feel bad about what happened, but it’s property damage. No one was hurt. No one was killed.”

And thank God for that, Veronica thought. If MS-17 had targeted Weevil’s house, his _family_ \-- the thought was too horrifying to contemplate. She gave a half-shrug of acknowledgement, not able to voice what she was thinking.

“I’ll check in with Candy tomorrow,” he promised. “But I wanted to talk to you about Berto Flores. We need to think about how to--”

“V’ronica,” Logan said, his voice rough with sleep. Veronica turned toward the bedroom.  “Are you making dinner or--?” He stopped short in the doorway, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs carelessly tugged on. “Keith,” he said, his eyes widening slightly. 

Keith answered mildly. “Logan.” 

What, exactly, had intervened between their arrival home and Veronica making dinner was maybe kind of obvious, given his attire and sleepiness. But she refused to look at her dad for a reaction. 

Logan opened his mouth, closed it, and glanced at Veronica. Then he said, “Let me get some pants.”

Veronica saw her dad’s head bob once in her peripheral vision. “I would appreciate that,” he answered, slightly pained.

She snorted. “Dad, we’re adults. We’re _living together_. Do you really think we _don’t_ \--”

“Honey, please never finish that sentence,” he interrupted with an exaggerated wince. 

“Prude,” she decided.

“Let an old man savor his illusions.”

Veronica grabbed another beer from the fridge for Logan and popped the cap off. She tapped her fingernails impatiently against the countertop, watching the still-not-boiling water. “All right, old man. Let’s talk about Berto.”

& & &

With a bit of an unnecessary flourish, Veronica tossed the penne into the boiling water, then cringed out of the way of the backsplash. She turned back to her dad. “So,” she summarized, “we need to fire his ass.” Grabbing her beer, she took a long swig from the bottle.

Her dad grimaced, but didn’t answer immediately. She’d recounted her conversations with Felicia, and with Cristina at the clinic. As far as Veronica was concerned, the decision was already made -- somebody just needed to tell Berto.

“I think the better question is how to frame the… termination of the relationship,” Keith said finally. 

Veronica pulled a wooden spoon from the utensil drawer and stirred the pasta slowly. “You mean you _don’t_ want to go with, ‘Hey, Berto, we’re firing your abusive ass’? Because I’d be more than happy to deliver that message,” she chirped.

“While that may be satisfying, I’d prefer we soften the wording just a smidge,” he answered. 

Logan reemerged in a pair of battered old sweatpants and a NAVY tank top, the edges of his hair damp from having splashed water on his face. Veronica might have pulled him right back into the bedroom to have her way with him (again) if it weren’t for her dad. Instead, she handed Logan a beer, and stood weirdly close to him as he leaned against kitchen counter beside the stove. He was an _excellent_ leaner. 

He shot her a puzzled look, then took a long pull from his beer. She watched his throat as he swallowed, only belatedly remembering her dad was in the room with them and she should probably stop obsessively watching Logan.

She wasn’t normally that girl -- the clingy, must-have-hands-on-my-man-at-all-times type -- but given the frayed state of her nerves the last twenty-four hours, she decided to give herself a pass. She shifted closer, her arm brushing against his just enough to give her goosebumps. 

Logan kissed her temple, his lips cool and damp from the beer, and he was standing so close to her that maybe he was feeling the same compulsions. When she glanced up at him, his attention caught on something on the countertop behind her, and he laughed and said, “Yeah, we’re not doing that.” 

Puzzled, Veronica paused in stirring the penne, trying to figure out what his objection was about. He stepped around her and grabbed the jar of sauce, wrinkling his nose as he put it back in the cabinet. On the top shelf. As far back as he could push it.

“Thanks,” Veronica said wryly.

Logan ignored her, digging several tomatoes out of the bowl beside the microwave instead.

“And the penne’s going to be ready before the sauce,” she added. Not that it would make a difference to him -- Logan was something of a sauce snob.

Logan tossed a tomato in the air and caught it. “My sauce is worth the wait,” he promised, piling several tomatoes on the counter before pulling out a pan, the cutting board, and a knife. “Olive oil?”

She grabbed the bottle from the cupboard and handed it over. Clearly, he was determined to make something himself, and he was damnably good at it, so who was she to stop him?

Veronica turned back to her father, intending to pick up the conversation about Berto, but he was watching Logan thoughtfully. She continued to stir instead, glancing between the two men. They’d grown closer since Logan returned from his deployment, developing a pretty easy friendship. But their typical conversations centered on sports, the weather, or Veronica, really, and she wasn’t sure whether Logan was ready to discuss anything more serious with her father. She supposed it wasn’t her job to make those decisions for him.

“I was sorry to hear about your friend, Logan,” her dad said, his tone solemn. “How are you doing?”

Veronica felt Logan tense up and knew he hadn’t expected to talk about Gonzo. “Thanks,” he answered, favoring Keith with a half-smile before turning back to the stove. He poured olive oil into the pan. “I’m fine. I didn’t-- I wasn’t flying with his group.” Veronica heard the guilt underlying his words and touched his bicep briefly.

Her father simply nodded and let Logan determine where the conversation went. 

“What we do -- it’s really pretty safe most of the time,” Logan said, his attention focused carefully on tossing a bit of minced garlic into the pan. Veronica resisted the urge to interrupt, to argue with him, because flying fighter planes couldn’t possibly be _safe_ , but she was curious where he was going with this. “I mean, on deployment it’s a little different. But training flights are pretty routine. Our planes undergo something like 10 hours of maintenance for every hour in the air.”

Veronica breathed slowly, listening and stirring the pasta mostly just so she had something to do. The relative dangerousness of Logan’s job was something she hadn’t _stopped_ thinking about the past twenty-four hours. She was curious, craving more details because that was her nature -- but she also wasn’t sure she’d be able to stand by and watch him deploy if she had an accurate mental list of everything last that could go wrong with his plane.

“It’s just…” he paused, gave a quick shake of his head and began chopping tomatoes, working quickly and efficiently with the knife. “If something does go wrong, ejecting is almost as dangerous as trying to land an ailing plane.”

“How do you mean?” her dad asked mildly. Veronica wanted to thank him -- he was so good at reading people, and pushing just enough to make sure they were comfortable sharing things they didn’t know they needed to say out loud.

“It’s… the ejection mechanism is…” He shrugged, his grip on the knife tightening a bit. “It’s a rocket. Our seats are essentially mounted on explosives, and that alone should tell you how much of a last resort ejection is.” Logan turned to catch her gaze, and she must have looked mildly terrified, because he smiled and gave her a reassuring nod. “It’s okay, really.”

Veronica realized she’d stopped stirring, and was simply standing there like a moron holding the wooden spoon over the boiling pasta and staring at him with wide eyes. But-- “Rockets?” she repeated. She didn’t mean to sidetrack, to interrupt whatever it was Logan wanted to talk about, but… _explosives_?

“Well, yes,” Logan answered, grabbing her free hand to give it a quick squeeze. He turned back to his task, moving the cutting board over to the pan so he could push the diced tomatoes into the oil. “If there’s something so wrong with the plane that you need to eject, you’re probably going to want to get pretty far away pretty quickly.”

Somehow, that clarification did _absolutely nothing_ to make her feel any better about this. “Logan…”

“No, it’s just pilots who eject tend to have related… injuries, and those injuries can end your career, or, sometimes, like with Gonzo--” He stopped, shook his head, his jaw tense. “I knew all of this. I just--” He swallowed, looked away. “I can’t fly scared.”

Veronica glanced to her father, but he was simply sitting at the counter, leaning his chin on his hand and watching them. Okay. So he expected her to handle this. She struggled to get her thoughts in order, to tamp down the panic related to _explosive seats_ and concentrate on Logan.

“It’s only been a day, Logan,” she began, putting down the wooden spoon to reach for him. “You need to give yourself some time to--”

“To forget about Gonzo?” he demanded loudly, suddenly angry. Logan shook his head, half-turning away to collect himself. “I’m sorry. I’m just…”

“I know,” she said, abandoning the pasta in favor of wrapping her arms around him from behind. She pressed her cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt. “It’ll get better -- or at least easier.”

His hands covered hers, and he stayed quiet for a long moment, inhaling deeply. “I need to finish the sauce.”

She squeezed tighter, her arms pressing against his ridiculously hard abs before she released him. “Yeah, you really do,” she said, careful to keep her tone light and teasing. “‘Cause I’m pretty sure this _perfectly adequate_ penne is just about done.”

Veronica glanced at her father, who gave her the slightest nod. She used the wooden spoon to fish out some penne to test, awkwardly letting the boiling water drain off. As she lifted the spoon, Logan grabbed the penne and tossed it in his mouth, chewing with a thoughtful expression.

“Yup, that’s some _adequate_ pasta.” Logan smirked and turned back to the sauce. “Don’t worry -- it’s the sauce that makes the pasta.”

“You are such a pain in the ass,” she told him. Since that was actually one of the things she loved most about him, she was more than a little relieved to see that spark back, however briefly.

Logan gave a half bow, and handed her the colander.

& & &

When she heard the front door to the office open, Veronica looked quickly to her father. He was already up, moving around his desk toward the empty outer office. Mac had texted earlier that she was running late -- and Veronica made a mental note to follow up on _that_ in case a certain blush-worthy consulting client was part of the reason. 

For now, Veronica was focused on the much less pleasant subject of Berto Flores. Or, framed in a more favorable light, the satisfying task of _firing_ Berto as a client.

Her father shot her a look as he reached the door, then leaned into the outer office. “Mr. Rodriguez, please, come on in.”

Keith had warned Veronica to be mostly quiet, that he’d do the talking -- that ending things amicably with Berto was the only way to sever all ties and leave them ethically free to search for Sonia themselves. Veronica understood the logic to his points, she really did. But knowing what she knew about Berto, understanding how he’d hurt Felicia and Sonia, and how he’d duped her -- she kinda just wanted to air her grievances in a satisfying torrent.

But she would hold her tongue for as long as she possibly could.

Berto appeared in the doorway moments later, dressed much the same as he had been that first day -- paint-splattered boots and pants, a plain t-shirt, and a shy smile on his reasonably attractive face. This time, Veronica studied him with a cynical, jaundiced eye, but there was nothing obvious, no glint of evil, no faint-but-unmistakable scent of sulphur. Nothing.

Shouldn’t guys like him come with a warning sign?

“Mr. Mars,” Berto greeted, shaking hands with Keith. He turned to Veronica and nodded, “Veronica.” 

“Berto.” She willed herself to smile as her dad settled into the guest chair alongside Berto, trying to build a rapport by not putting a big old desk in between them. Veronica remained right where she was behind her desk, since she was quite comfortable maintaining a healthy distance.

“Thanks for stopping by,” Keith began. “I’m sorry we don’t have better news for you, but we haven’t been able to find any trace of your sister.” Even knowing that her father was playing a role, Veronica barely noticed the hesitation before he said “sister.” He was so good.

Berto nodded slowly, his hands clasped together in his lap, the very picture of anguished concern. “Okay.” He sounded uncertain. “I know that our -- status -- makes things harder.”

“Unfortunately, that’s the truth of it,” Keith answered. 

“I can pay a little more today,” Berto said, hope in his voice, and Veronica wondered, again, just what he’d planned to do to Sonia once he found her. She shuddered, nearly missing Berto’s plaintive, “What’re the next steps?”

Veronica leaned back, schooling her features to disguise her anticipatory satisfaction.

“That’s actually what we wanted to talk to you about,” Keith said, congenial and warm. “While Mars Investigations has an excellent track record with missing persons cases, we’ve also done this enough to know when to throw in the towel.”

Berto recoiled slightly, his expression shifting to something quite a bit less pleasant. “You mean you’re giving up?”

“Well,” Keith said, “not exactly. We’ve exhausted our standard searches, which is how we would typically generate leads. Without any new information, I’m afraid we couldn’t continue even if we wanted to.” Keith paused, and Veronica recognized that her father was recalibrating his tone, making sure none of _his_ thoughts about men who beat women and children leaked into his voice. “We wouldn’t want to waste your money.”

“No,” Berto answered, anger clear in the tense lines of his body. Veronica’s focus sharpened, and she eased her hand into the bag dangling from the back of her chair. “I want you to keep looking,” he ordered, and the pretenses melted away as his voice rose. “I want you to find Sonia.”

“I’m afraid we can’t help you,” Veronica interjected, her fingers closing around the familiar, boxy handle of her stun gun. 

Berto’s gaze swung to her, and the blazing fury visible now was actually a little intimidating. Veronica froze; she had no trouble believing him capable of violence. How had she missed it before?

And then her dad was moving, standing to rummage through a few folders on his desk. He unearthed a crisp, white envelope and held it aloft. “In fact, given the lack of results, we didn’t feel we could in good conscience keep your money. This,” he continued, holding the envelope out for Berto, “is a full refund of all--”

“I don’t _want_ that money,” Berto erupted. His chair screeched along the floor as he stood abruptly. “I _want_ you to find my -- Sonia. She’s my _family_.”

Keith stepped sideways, keeping himself between Berto and Veronica. “Now, Mr. Rodriguez, I understand that you’re upset, but it’s--”

“You understand _nothing_.”

Keith’s tone was ice over steel when he answered, “Think very carefully about your next move, Mr. Rodriguez. I urge you to take this check -- and your anger -- someplace else.”

Berto glared at him, breathing hard, and for a long moment, Veronica was sure she would have to use the taser clutched in her lap. She’d scanned Berto when he walked in, and knew he was almost certainly unarmed, but he had thirty pounds and six inches on her father.

After a drawn out moment of indecision, Berto snatched the envelope from Keith. He shifted, and just like that, the palpable malevolence was gone, once again hidden behind a veneer of unassuming blandness. Veronica considered herself something of a chameleon, but she had nothing on Berto Flores.

“Fine,” Berto said, a low, simmering anger in his voice. “Thanks for nothing.”

Keith remained where he was, protecting her as always, until Berto started moving toward the door. She let herself exhale, pushed her chair back slowly, and stood.

Veronica followed her dad to the outer office, stopping just behind him. Side by side, they watching silently as Berto paused, looking back with an unreadable expression. She suppressed a shudder.

And then he was gone. 

Veronica shook off the lingering aftertaste of disdain. “What a prince.”

Keith turned back to her. “I want you to keep the office locked today, Veronica,” he instructed, pointing toward the main door. “I have a meeting in San Diego.”

“He’s not going to come back,” she declared, as much to convince herself as her dad. What would Berto have to gain by threatening her? She actually _didn’t_ know where Sonia was.

“He’s angry and you could be a convenient target for that anger.” Her father grimaced. “We know he has no qualms about using violence on women.”

Veronica gestured vaguely toward her bag, slung over her desk chair in the inner office. “I have the gun, too,” she offered. She’d even almost forgotten on her drive in, blowing right through a yellow light without worrying whether she’d be pulled over and then shot in some ridiculous misunderstanding with a deputy.

Keith raised an eyebrow. “With bullets in it?”

She flushed. “Well, not right now.” At least she _had_ bullets with her.

Her dad sighed.

“Yeah, okay.” She retreated to her desk and fished a couple bullets out of the bottom of her bag, suppressing her instinctive reaction to the cool, smooth metal casings. Fingers shaking only the slightest bit, she methodically loaded them into the barrel, and snapped it shut. She rejoined her father in the outer office, holding the gun a bit gingerly. “Happy?”

“So,” Mac said from just inside the entrance, a pained expression on her face. “I take it the meeting with Berto went _really_ well.”

& & &

The email alert chimed not long after Keith left for San Diego. Veronica frowned at her laptop, quickly clicking on the email program. 

_Cristina Galvez_.

“Got it.” Veronica brightened, sitting up straighter as she opened the email, nearly vibrating with anticipation. This was like a gift from the karmic gods for firing Berto as a client.

_Dear Ms. Mars,_

_Please consider this the formal response from Central Valley Health Collaborative regarding your request for information about a patient. In accordance with HIPAA and California’s own privacy laws, we do not release health information without the authorization of the patient._

_If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to call me. I can be reached at 916.555.3200, or on a direct line at 916-555-8924._

“Or not,” she muttered, crestfallen. Could she have misread Cristina? She’d been _so_ sure Cristina knew Sonia and was at least considering helping Veronica find her. But the email was a pretty clear brush off. 

Veronica reread the letter, slowly this time. There was something that wasn’t quite right, and if she could just--

“Mac!”

A loud noise from the outer office was the only immediate response. It sounded like something shattering into a million pieces, and Veronica jumped up, grabbing her laptop. “Are you okay?” she said, moving quickly to the doorway.

Mac stood by her desk, staring balefully at the broken mug sitting in the center of a puddle of coffee on the floor. “Hey, Pep Squad, maybe not so much with the shouting?” Her tone was mostly joking, but Veronica knew Mac well enough to recognize the underlying irritation. 

“Sorry, Mac.” Veronica tried her very best smile. “I’ll clean it up for you if you run two phone numbers for me.”

Mac considered, arms crossed in front of her chest, her slouchy, purple sweater inching down one shoulder. “Okay.”

“Thanks!” Veronica handed Mac her laptop. “Why is her direct line so different from the main line?” she asked, and then retreated to the small wet bar in the corner of the inner office for paper towels. 

She’d only just knelt to soak up the spilled coffee when Mac had an answer.

“Yeah,” Mac said, pushing back from her desk to check on Veronica’s progress, “this direct line is actually just Cristina Galvez’s cell phone.”

“I knew it!” Veronica bounced back to her feet, the spill forgotten. “I _knew_ I had her.”

“You think she has information on Sonia?” Mac surmised, her enthusiasm starting to resurface. 

Veronica grinned in response. “Let’s find out.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Mac protested, pointing at her poor, shattered binary code mug. “You’re on cleanup duty, missy.” She stepped in between Veronica and her laptop. Brave move, all things considered.

“Fine,” Veronica groused, hastily sopping up the coffee, and then gathering the shards of Mac’s mug. She dumped the detritus in the trash and rinsed her hands off. “All done,” she announced, holding out her hands for her laptop. “Mother may I?”

Mac snorted and handed it over. 

Veronica checked the phone number and dialed quickly, then put her laptop back on Mac’s desk. As the phone rang, Mac gathered a small notepad and a pen and pushed them to the edge of her desk for Veronica, who smiled her thanks.

“Si?”

“Hi, Cristina? This is Veronica Mars.” She couldn’t quite keep the eagerness from her voice. “I got your email.”

A slight pause, and then, “Oh, Papi,” Cristina answered warmly. “I’m about to punch out for lunch. Let me call you right back.”

“Okay, tha-- Huh.” Veronica frowned at the phone. “She hung up.”

“So maybe you _don’t_ have her?” Mac asked warily.

Veronica shrugged, frustrated and a little confused. “She said she’d call me right back. On the other hand, she called me Papi.”

Mac simply nodded, then moved to the inner office to make more coffee. Veronica was almost positive they had some thick paper cups around somewhere.

“I am sorry about your mug,” Veronica called after her. She made a mental note to find the tackiest mug in Southern California to replace it.

Mac shouted back, “No worries.” The Keurig made some troubling sounds, and Veronica crossed to the doorway to peer at it with unease. Mac and Veronica exchanged concerned glances, but the machine worked at least well enough to spit out some coffee. Mac sniffed it suspiciously, then added a hit of sugar, and shrugged. “Maybe worry a little bit about that, though?” 

Veronica added it to her already considerable mental list of _Things To Be Concerned About_ and followed Mac back to the outer office. “So,” she began, “you want to tell me about this consulting client of yours?”

Choking slightly on her coffee, Mac coughed, placed her cup down carefully, and gave Veronica an unconvincing glare. “Nope.”

“So he’s cute, huh?”

“I hate you,” Mac answered, swiveling her chair away and busying herself with… a search or a database inquiry or whatever. Veronica had trouble keeping the terminology straight.

She sighed and dropped onto the couch. Seven interminable, fidget-filled minutes later, her phone rang. She jumped about a foot in the air, then snatched it from Mac’s desk. “Hello?”

“Veronica?”

“Yes,” Veronica held the phone tightly to her ear. “Hi, Cristina. Thanks so much for calling me back.” Mac swiveled back and offered a congratulatory fist bump, and Veronica accepted, adding a silly little finger explosion just because she was excited. 

“I have a good feeling about you,” Cristina said. “But this is a chance I’m taking.”

“I understand,” Veronica answered. And she did. “You won’t regret it. In fact, I want you to know we dropped Berto Flores as a client today. I’m _only_ looking for Sonia to make sure she’s okay.”

Cristina didn’t answer for a long moment. “And what will you do if you find her?”

“I won’t know exactly what she needs until I talk to her,” Veronica answered truthfully. “But if she’s not hidden well enough, there are things I can do to help her -- documents, resources, that kind of thing.”

“Mmm.” Cristina paused again, and Veronica forced herself to _not_ fill the silence. Finally, Cristina said, “Sonia _was_ a patient at the clinic last year, and that’s all I’m comfortable sharing with you on that topic.”

“Understood.” Veronica was all but biting her lip to keep from pushing for more. She pulled the notepad closer and grabbed the pen, tapping it lightly against the desk until Mac shot her a look. _Sorry_ , she mouthed.

“I don’t know exactly where she went,” Cristina said, “but she was in touch with the shelter system in LA.”

“A…” Veronica wrote _LA_ and then paused, “homeless shelter?”

“Domestic violence shelter,” Cristina corrected. “But you won’t be able to find her that way.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Domestic violence shelters are pretty good at keeping themselves hidden,” Cristina answered, sounding amused. “They have to be.”

Veronica slumped a bit, her pen still on her notepad. Hard to argue that point -- and impossible to be mad about it. “Okay,” she said. “Do you have any ideas on ways that I could find her?”

“Sonia is a seamstress,” Cristina continued. “She worked some hours for a couple dry cleaners up this way -- hemming pants, taking in seams, that sort of thing. But I know she hoped to find something more reliable when she left here. Maybe three months after she disappeared, I got a package mailed from LA with no name on the return label. Someone sent my daughters a couple pairs of Eleven jeans.”

“But you think it was from Sonia?” Veronica said, writing _Eleven jeans?_ on her notepad. Mac craned her neck, squinting at the paper, then nodded and began to type.

“Sonia babysat for me a few times -- she liked my girls, and they loved her,” Cristina explained. “She made them a couple dresses last year.”

“So you think Sonia sent your daughters those jeans.” 

“I don’t know who else it could have been,” Cristina explained. “There are more than a few sewing shops in LA, and a lot of them make jeans.”

Surprised, Veronica said, “Really?” Because LA had its charms, but she would never have numbered clothes manufacturing among them.

“Yes. If Sonia wanted work as a seamstress, LA would be a good choice.”

“Okay.” Veronica scribbled _seamstress, jeans_. “This package -- was there a note?”

“Yes,” Cristina answered. “But all it said was, ‘Thanks.’”

“Unsigned,” Veronica surmised. She circled Cristina’s name on her notepad. “You’re the one that put her in touch with the shelter system.”

“It’s hard here for the undocumented,” Cristina said by way of an answer. “You and me, we can go to the police, or to our families. But for someone like Sonia, there’s really no one to help. Our clinic provides more than just healthcare--” Cristina stopped short. “I really can’t get into specifics.” 

“I understand,” Veronica answered. She felt that buzz again, that excitement that came with a new lead. “Really. This has been very helpful, thank you.” She paused. “Do you want me to let you know if I find her?”

“Yes, please,” Cristina said. “I would consider it a kindness.”

& & &

Saturday morning, Veronica awoke to a text message from Mac. _Man, this jeans stuff is crazy. Call me when you’re up._ Veronica checked the timestamp and smiled.

_4:13am, really? Maybe call me when YOU’RE up._

Not surprisingly, Veronica and Logan showered, walked three blocks to the cafe, enjoyed a leisurely brunch, strolled back home, and were nestled in opposite ends of the couch, a book in her hands and a PS4 controller in his, before Mac responded. Veronica heard the notification buzz and smirked, pressing a bookmark between the pages to save her place. She leaned forward and swiped her phone from the table. 

_Yeah, sorry. Got tired. Come by?_

“Hey, Logan?” Veronica shifted on the couch, pulling her legs up to face him. He seemed okay today, though a little quieter than normal. 

His video game avatar delivered a quick series of implausible flying kicks to his improbably muscled foe before Logan paused the game and looked over at her. “Yeah?”

“Mac has some information on the case. What are you thinking for the day?” She didn’t want to smother him, nor did she want to leave him to his own devices if he wanted her around. What had seemed to her in high school as clinginess, Veronica now understood to be Logan’s tactile nature. He craved touch -- _affectionate_ touch -- and she had her suspicions about the root cause of _that_ particular trait. 

While Veronica preferred to show her feelings in her actions, in _doing_ things for him, Logan’s instincts were all physical -- brushing her hair from her face, a playful hip check, tangling his fingers with hers. And considering the circumstances, she wouldn’t deprive him of hugs or touches or -- she was _such_ a dedicated girlfriend -- more sex if that’s what he needed to process his grief.

Logan considered her question for a moment. “I think I’ll hit the gym. Want me to drop you off on the way?”

Veronica had a perfectly good car, and Mac’s loft was nowhere close to on the way to the gym, which was on base. But she humored him and texted Mac, _Be there in 30_.

It was a bright, sunny day, and Veronica slipped on her sunglasses when Logan opened the roof. The drive to Mac’s was pretty quick, and she closed her eyes, rolling down her window part way to let the wind play in her hair. 

Logan pulled to the curb in front of Mac’s building and leaned across the armrest, kissing Veronica quite soundly, his warm palm pressed against the nape of her neck. She grinned and straightened her sunglasses when he pulled back. “What was that for?”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Just for being you.”

Veronica leaned this time, the armrest digging into her ribcage as she dragged his face down to hers. When she pulled back, they were both breathing a bit unevenly, and she was pretty sure she’d have a bruise on her side by nightfall. “Now go,” she said, reaching for the door handle. “Gotta keep that ass in shape.”

Logan smirked. “I’ll make sure to do an extra set of squats just for you.”

She laughed and heaved open the oversized door to Mac’s building. “You know what I like,” she called over her shoulder. He revved the engine twice before pulling away from the curb and she grinned even as she shook her head. 

Just a couple seconds after she hit the button beside Mac’s name, she was buzzed into the lobby. Mac’s building was an intriguing mix of old and new -- exposed old brick, paired with sleek new stairwells. The funky aesthetic was more appealing to Veronica, if she were being truthful, than the well-appointed luxury of The Pinnacle. But when she and Logan were looking for a place, his point about the layers of security at The Pinnacle had been persuasive -- she’d learned early that function was always more useful than style.

Veronica rapped her knuckles on the metal door, then winced and shook her hand to ease the sting. Mac pulled open the door, feigning disappointment when she saw Veronica was empty-handed. “No coffee?”

“No,” Veronica admitted, digging in her bag. “But I did bring you a gift. Ta-da!” She held the black mug that simply said _Meh_ in the palm of her hand, offering it to Mac with a sweep of her free hand across the lettering. “I’m sorry I startled you and made you drop your mug.”

Mac grinned and accepted the gift. “Thanks. This is cute.” She waved Veronica in, and carefully placed the mug on the sleek black kitchen counter before moving to her high-end espresso machine. “So I had no idea that there’s this whole…” she shrugged, “underground jeans manufacturing market in LA. I thought it was all sweatshops in Malaysia and Bangladesh.”

“Yeah.” Veronica frowned. “I didn’t think we produced anything but Oldsmobiles, pollution, and reality TV stars in America anymore.”

Mac snickered, flipping a switch to brew a shot of espresso. She watched the shot glass fill with aromatic brew, and then reached for a carafe of drip coffee. 

“Because one kind of coffee isn’t enough?” Veronica commented as Mac filled her brand new mug, then dumped the fresh espresso shot in on top. 

“Red eye,” Mac explained with a grin. “Want one?”

“God, no,” Veronica said. “You’d have to peel me off the ceiling.”

Mac indicated the living space with a tilt of her head. “C’mon, I have notes.”

Once they settled onto the overstuffed chair, Mac downed about half her red eye and then fired up her tablet. “So,” she said. “I have a new toy.”

Veronica felt like a hopeless Luddite, sitting there with her trusty notebook and pen as Mac magically made her tablet screen appear on the ridiculously large, wall-mounted TV in front of them. “Damn, Hermione, can I borrow your time-turner when you’re done with it?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool.” But Mac flushed a little when she said it, ducking her chin, and Veronica locked in on her target.

“Cindy MacKenzie, you are _blushing_ right now! Spill. Immediately.”

“There’s all this work stuff!” Mac protested, keeping her gaze stubbornly on the TV screen, even as her cheeks flamed a brighter shade of fuchsia.

“Oh, my God. Did this secret man of mystery slip you a little…” Veronica waggled her eyebrows, “ _technology_ the other night?”

Mac pressed a hand to her cheek, letting her long bangs shield part of her face. “If I tell you, will you please stop talking about it immediately?”

Veronica considered that for a moment. “Probably not,” she decided. “I mean, we’ll have to tell Wallace, obviously, and then we’ll all have to meet this guy, and--”

“Okay, so!” Mac interrupted, fiddling with her tablet, and the image on the screen changed to a list of high-end jean labels. “Weirdly enough, all of these companies actually make their stupidly expensive jeans right here in Southern California.”

“It’s cute that you think I’ll drop the subject,” Veronica said sweetly. “But we can talk about jeans first if that’ll make you feel better.”

“Eleven Jeans,” Mac pressed on, “those $350 jeans worn by the Hollywood glitterati as well as some of our favorite 09ers, is just one of them.”

Veronica snorted. “Who would pay $350 for a pair of jeans? That’s insane.”

“That’s the market,” Mac shrugged, flipping to a slideshow of assorted starlets posing, the stylized 11 visible on the back pockets. Veronica was silent when a picture of Carrie Bishop flashed on screen, standing in profile, her lavender hair bright against a black backdrop. The image was cropped, and Veronica could just make out a man’s hand reaching for Carrie’s waist. 

Veronica ignored the complicated emotional _stuff_ that would arise if she tried to confirm that it was Logan.

“Sorry,” Mac said quietly. “I didn’t realize that was in this group of pictures.”

“It’s fine,” Veronica said. And it was. Or at the very least, it should be. She glanced at Mac and nodded.

Mac started the slideshow again, only speaking once they reached an image of a starlet from some low-rated CW show with an ass that wouldn’t quit. “Apparently,” Mac said, “Eleven jeans make your ass look fantastic.”

“Damn,” Veronica murmured. “I mean, I still wouldn’t pay $350, but I wish my ass looked like that.”

With a quick, rueful laugh, Mac agreed, “Yup. I guess that’s what business types call viral marketing.”

Veronica glanced down at her notes. “So are they $350 because they allegedly make your ass look fantastic, or because they’re made in the USA by seamstresses being paid living wages?” Veronica asked hopefully, turning to Mac.

Mac sighed. “What do you think?”

& & &

By the time Logan texted that he’d swing by for her in a half hour unless she needed more time, Veronica was slumped on Mac’s couch, her head overfilled with information on the fancy jeans manufacturing industry. She told Logan that timing would work, then looked back over her copious notes. 

Potassium sprays, baked-in resin -- all kinds of insane, time- and labor-intensive ways to artificially scar the denim into that perfect, carelessly careworn form. The idle rich paying a premium to wear denim carefully crafted into a facsimile of what _the poors_ wore.

Charming.

The jeans sold for $200 or $300 or $350 a pair, even though they cost $50 or less to produce. The price gouging wouldn’t bother Veronica much if any of that excess made it to the workers, but it never did. Profit margins close to 50% for the labels and the manufacturing houses, and oh-so-predictably low wages for the potassium sprayers, resin technicians, and _bakers_ doing the actual work. 

Even worse wages for the mostly female, often undocumented seamstresses sewing the fabric into clothes.

“You know,” Mac said, tapping her fingernail against the edge of her tablet. “I think my favorite part about all of this is the Orwellian label names. I mean, Citizens for All Mankind? They sound so sensitive and kind and harmless for a company that rips off its customers _and_ pays well below living wage to its employees.”

“Contract workers,” Veronica corrected absently. Because underneath all of this disheartening information, she could feel the beginnings of a plan.

“What?” Mac had her feet up on the coffee table, and despite the red-eye she’d downed with alacrity, seemed to be fading a little. As if on cue, she yawned. “Wow, sorry.”

“The manufacturing houses that are making the jeans, they’re not employees of the labels,” Veronica explained, turning the information over again in her mind. “They’re separate companies.”

Mac waved away the distinction. “Still. These women spend, what, 10 hours a day, 6 days a week sewing jeans that they could _never_ afford to buy themselves.” She tossed her tablet aside, frustrated. 

“Sure, it’s disgusting,” Veronica agreed, pushing herself upright. “But it might also be an opportunity.”

Mac let her head drop against the couch, frowning at the ceiling. “An opportunity to… be disgusting?”

“No,” Veronica answered, scribbling on her notepad. “To get information. These shops can do fast turn, small orders, right?”

“Sure,” Mac confirmed, sliding even further down so she was basically lying curled up on her end of the couch. “That’s why the business model makes sense, manufacturing things locally.”

“Okay, so what if the fame-whoring friend of a D-list celebrity has visions of opening a high-end boutique and needs to find a shop to make the jeans?” Veronica grabbed her phone and flipped through her photo album, looking for -- there. “See?” 

The picture was a couple months old -- Trina Echolls, with a bemusedly accommodating Logan on one side, and a slightly star struck Veronica on the other, on a red carpet. Trina had begged until Logan relented and agreed to attend the Hollywood premiere of Trina’s independent film, insisting only that Veronica come along. Despite the awful “plot” and unconvincing performances of the movie, she’d had a pretty good time. And she’d saved this particular picture, because it captured a truly _vapid_ look on her face, and Logan had laughed until actual tears came down his cheeks when he saw it.

Mac smirked at the picture and then looked back at Veronica. “You want to ask Trina to--?”

“No, _Amber_. Like,” Veronica continued, adopting Amber’s singsong delivery, “how hard can _selling_ things be? It’s perfect, because I _love_ shopping, so I know _exactly_ what my shop should look like!”

Snickering, Mac slumped back into the embrace of the couch. “Okay. So Amber the starfucker gets us… where, exactly?”

“Well, I’m _hoping_ it’ll get us in to tour a couple of these sewing shops.” Veronica brandished her phone. “If I send you that picture, can you crop Logan out and create a website for Amber’s Boutique?”

“Ooh!” Mac perked up. “Can we name it Paul’s Boutique instead?” 

Veronica stared back at her blankly. “Who’s Paul?”

“ _Hey, ladies in the place, I’m callin’ out to ya_ ,” Mac burst out. She paused, taking in Veronica’s lack of recognition, and then continued, much less enthusiastically, “ _There never was a city kid truer and bluer_ …” Her arms dropped back to the couch. “No?”

Veronica just shrugged.

“Not a Beastie Boys fan,” Mac said, nodding slowly. “Okay. Amber’s Boutique. Great!”

Laughing, Veronica said, “Sorry, Mac Attack. What else will we need? I can do business cards, and I have some of Amber IDs around somewhere.”

“Business plan?” Mac proposed. “That won’t take me long if I can find a sample on the interwebs.” She was practically rubbing her hands together in glee.

“Perfect!” Veronica tossed her notepad onto the table. “Now tell me about the guy.”

Mac groaned and brought her hands to her face. “There’s a guy,” she mumbled. “Maybe. Kind of. I don’t know.”

“Name?”

“I can run my own background report,” Mac admonished, peering at Veronica over her fingers. “And I don’t want to. I just want…” She shrugged. “Something normal.”

Veronica had about fourteen jokes ready, but the uncertainty in Mac’s tone stopped her. “You like this guy, huh?” 

Mac pressed her palms against her eyes, then dropped her hands to her lap in resignation. “Yes.” She glanced at Veronica and away.

“And he brought you hardware?”

Narrowing her eyes, Mac turned to her. “Literal hardware, yes. He brought me a new Chromecast because he said flowers die in a couple days, but technology has moderately better staying power.” She pointed at Veronica and warned, “Don’t make that dirty.”

Grinning, Veronica answered, “I don’t even have to.” She raised her voice, talking over Mac’s protests, “He sounds great, Mac. Really. I won’t pry.”

Mac looked kind of stunned, which made sense, as prying was Veronica’s most basic nature. “Okay,” she answered belatedly. “Thanks. I just…” She shrugged.

Veronica’s phone buzzed, and she reached for it. “You just don’t want to jinx it. I get it.” She checked her messages -- Logan was waiting downstairs. She hooked her thumb toward the door. “Gotta go.”

“How’s he doing?”

Veronica pushed herself up from the second most comfortable couch in the world. “Okay. Up and down a little.” She smiled ruefully. “He’s had too much experience at this.”

Mac looked down at her hands. “Yeah. Hey, Veronica?”

Halfway to the door, Veronica stopped and turned back. “Yeah?”

“Thanks,” Mac said. “For not,” she shrugged, “Prying.”

“Any time,” Veronica answered. “And I’m here whenever you want to tell me all about Technology Guy. It’s totally not _killing me_ to leave it alone,” she added breezily, waving and heading for the door.

“Technology Guy?” Mac called after her. “Really?”

“That’s what we’re calling him _at least_ until I get a name!”

& & &

END CHAPTER FIVE


	6. Chapter 6

Another piece of unfinished business was bothering Veronica as she pressed through the door of Mac’s building and walked to Logan’s car. She slid into the passenger seat and raked her gaze down his form. “You’re not sweaty and gross.”

He rolled his eyes and hooked an arm around her shoulders to haul her close for a kiss. “I showered.”

“Without me?” She grinned and kissed the corner of his smile. “Good workout?” she asked, pulling the seat belt across her body.

“Yes, dear, I did extra squats,” he said, affecting a long-suffering tone.

“Good job, honeybuns,” she shot back. “So would you mind swinging by Weevil’s place?”

Logan’s smile faded. “I actually have no idea where he lives, but sure.” His voice was carefully neutral, and she knew putting Logan and Weevil in the same place at the moment would be a terrible idea. It almost always was, to be honest. In most other facets of their lives, they were adults, well past the petty flare ups of high school, but something about their interaction made the both of them revert to adolescent bravado.

“Oh, no, I mean the garage,” she corrected, folding her hands primly in her lap, as if it was the very soul of normality to take your grieving boyfriend to an arson scene just to poke around a little. 

“Veronica.” 

Damn, he could convey a thousand words just by the way he said her name. “I just want to see it in the light of day,” she protested. “I feel responsible.” 

Logan’s brows lifted, and he was looking at her for far too long, considering he was the one driving. “Explain, please?”

And _why_ had she said that aloud? She hadn’t deemed it necessary to mention the strange MS-17 thread to Logan yet, but since she’d just hurled the lid of that particular can of worms out the figurative window, she sighed. “So I’m not sure if you saw my email while you were away,” she began, cursing herself for mentioning Nevada when Logan’s mouth tightened in reaction. “Weevil helped me out when I needed to check out a couple of neighborhoods in Long Beach where my very bad, very rusty Spanish skills would not have been adequate.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze now fixed on the road before them. “And you stumbled across a pack of angry arsonists?” He sounded remarkably calm, but she wasn’t fooled. The little muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Well…” She cringed, but there was no great way to phrase this. “I guess it’s more that we stumbled into a gang neighborhood. And because there was some bad blood with the San Diego PCHers a few years back,” she shrugged, adding a playful lilt to her voice, “ _maaaaay_ be they misinterpreted us being there and asking questions.”

Logan pulled into the lot of the insurance broker next door to Weevil’s ruined shop, popping the gear shift into park with a bit more force than was strictly necessary. “A gang,” he repeated evenly. “You think this is part of some gang war? I thought Weevil’s PCHers were a kinder, gentler, Robin Hood fantasy of a biker gang?”

Veronica grinned, acknowledging the hit. “Well, they do steal cars from the rich to, you know, make money to feed their families. So _kind of_ Robin Hood-esque.”

The look on Logan’s face made it clear what he thought of that bit of myth-making. “So, what, you guys drove around Long Beach introducing Weevil as a PCHer with a grudge to anyone with a face tattoo?”

“No, that’s the thing -- Weevil didn’t do anything other than talk to some people, ask a few questions about this missing woman I’m trying to find.” 

Logan turned to face her, and she knew he wouldn’t drop this until he understood. “Weevil asked some questions, and they drove all the way down here to torch the shop?”

Veronica opened her mouth, then closed it, her mind racing. He didn’t need to be concerned about her right now, and _she_ definitely didn’t need the two most important people in her life watching her worriedly. But if she and Logan were going to make this work long-term, these were probably the kinds of things she needed to start sharing with him.

So she blew out a frustrated breath and said, “MS-17 are some really bad guys. We don’t know _for sure_ that this was them, but,” she shrugged, “given the old beef with MS-17 and the PCHers, plus the timing of this, so close after we were up there...” Veronica brushed imaginary lint from her jeans. 

Logan opened his door and was out of the car before she could react, moving around the hood and toward the burnt out shop. He was moving quickly, long, angry strides. Veronica pushed out of the BMW and hurried after him.

The scent of smoke and charred wood was still heavy in the air near the shop, along with an undercurrent of dampness. She moved closer, scanning the ruined building. A large portion of the roof had caved in, raining down twisted metal on the burnt out car husks in what had once been the work area. There was still standing water in puddles scattered around the parking lot. “Damn,” she muttered.

Logan’s mouth tightened, his arms crossed somewhat defensively as he took in the devastation. “Thought this might feel a little bit like…” He shrugged. “I don’t know, karmic justice?” He glanced at her then away, his eyes dark and unreadable. “It doesn’t.” 

She moved closer, recognizing the brittle way he was holding himself. Veronica had seen the ruins of the Echolls estate when it burned. From the outside, it hadn’t looked as terrible as this, but she knew almost nothing had been salvageable. What he’d had of his mother’s things then had mostly been ruined. The only childhood pictures Logan had left, the only pictures of him and his mother, were the ones that had been released over the years by the Echolls’ PR representatives. 

Weevil wasn’t that guy anymore, had changed just like they had, but Logan certainly wasn’t ready to hear her defend Weevil. And she would never defend what Weevil had done senior year, but then she wouldn’t defend most of what Logan had done, then, either.

He cleared his throat, nudged her with his elbow. “What’s Weevil going to do?”

She pressed her lips together -- that was the question she’d been avoiding answering since leaving Weevil in the capable hands of her father two nights before. “Put a claim in to his insurance carrier and rebuild?” Because that was the best case scenario.

Logan turned to her with his frustration plain on his face, not letting her slide with that attempt at deflection. “What’s he going to do about MS-17?” he clarified, his tone tight and tense.

She wanted to say that Weevil was going to keep the possible gang ties to himself. She wanted to say that he was smart enough to know that sometimes discretion is the better part of valor. She wanted to say he would keep his family safe by not doing _anything_ about MS-17.

But Veronica sighed and told the truth. “I really don’t know.”

& & &

Sunday dawned bright and sunny, a complete mismatch for Veronica’s mood. She wasn’t surprised to find Logan awake, lying wordlessly beside her with his gaze trained on the ceiling. 

When she moved, he turned to look at her, his face partially obscured by the pillow. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she answered, rolling toward him and slinging one arm across his stomach. He was warm and solid beneath her fingers, and she traced a pathway from his rib cage down to his hipbone. “How’re you doing?”

He smiled, but there was no humor behind it. “Fucking sick of funerals.”

“I know.” Her heart ached for him.

With a groan, he pushed himself upright. “I’m gonna shower.” Her hand trailed across his abdomen as he moved away from her and he gave her a speculative look. “You coming?”

Veronica grinned and stretched languorously, appreciating the way he paused to watch, his gaze sliding down her frame. “Yeah, okay,” she said, then frowned. “But first -- brushing my teeth.”

“Good call,” he said, rubbing a hand across his mouth and disappearing into the bathroom. By the time she made it in there, he was already naked and testing the water temperature, licking a spot of toothpaste from the corner of his lips. He threw her a heated look and stepped into the shower.

She brushed her teeth quickly, then joined him, pausing to wet her hair before she reached for him. There were already suds trapped along his collarbone and trailing down his chest. He tried to push her teal loofah aside, smirking, but she persisted, urging him to turn away from her so she could wash his back. She took her time, running her fingers along his damp skin, pressing kisses where the suds washed away. 

When he turned back to face her, he wiped a hand across his face and reached for the loofah. He spent a predictably long time ensuring her breasts were properly clean before moving lower, across her abdomen, along her thighs -- and then he tossed the loofah aside, straightened up, and yanked her to his chest.

She smiled up at him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he murmured, his amusement fading. His mood shifted, darkened, and then he was holding onto her for dear life, like she was keeping him afloat.

Veronica squealed when her back hit the cool shower tiles, but tilted her face up to his for a sloppy kiss, their wet lips slipping against each other. He pulled back just enough to catch her gaze with sad, soft eyes, lifted an eyebrow. She wrapped her arms around his neck and let him pick her up. 

It was slow and slippery and emotional, and she would never admit to crying when she came, because most of her attention was on him anyway. He eased her down and held her close, leaning in to rest his forehead on the wall above her shoulder while he recovered, the warm spray of water cascading over them both.

“Love you,” he murmured, before kissing her once more, and then rinsing off and stepping out of the shower. 

Veronica washed her hair slowly, let the warm water sluice away whatever tears she may or may not have shed. Because today wasn’t about her -- she needed to be strong for Logan. Her own feelings could just take the day off.

She chose a simple shift dress in a deep maroon, and grabbed a fitted black jacket as an afterthought. When she emerged from their large walk-in closet, Logan was sitting on the bed in his boxer briefs, pulling on black socks. “Help?” she asked, turning her back so he could zip the dress.

He obliged, then eased his hand down, along her spine, across to her hip. He hugged her briefly, his cheek pressed against her back. “Great dress,” he said, his voice raw.

Logan dressed methodically, tucking his soft white undershirt into the sharp blue pants prescribed by the Navy. Crisp white dress shirt, plain black tie, black belt, black shoes. Veronica pulled his service coat from the closet, carefully touching his gold wings and ribbons, the two stripes along the cuffs that identified him as a lieutenant. She brought the jacket to him. “Thanks,” he murmured, and shrugged it on.

She supposed it would be inappropriate to comment on how handsome he looked in the service blues, considering. Instead, she gave him a quick, fierce hug. “Are you ready?”

“Not even close,” he admitted. “But we should go.”

Gonzo was from El Centro, almost two hours east of San Diego; the drive took nearly an hour and half. Logan stayed mostly silent, and she followed his lead, allowing him whatever space and silence he needed. They found the church, and as they pulled into the parking lot, Logan’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He parked a ways away, as the surprisingly large crowd had almost filled the lot to capacity. 

Veronica took his hand as they walked back toward the mourners. She spotted her father first, and then Wallace. She could tell by the way Logan faltered exactly when he noticed them -- Keith, Wallace, Mac, and Dick, standing in an awkward group by the entrance.

“What are they…?” Logan fixed his confused gaze on her. “They don’t -- they didn’t even know Gonzo.”

Her chest felt tight, but she willed herself to sound normal when she answered, “Logan, they’re here for _you_.” 

He was honestly stunned, his attention shifting back and forth between her and their friends. Their family. She had the strongest urge to hug the hell out of him, but restrained herself. Instead, she reached across with her free hand, cradling his hand in both of hers.

Logan had mostly recovered as they reached the group, accepting handshakes from Keith and Wallace, and a quick hug from Mac, before turning to Dick. 

“Yeah, man,” Dick fumbled, looking earnest, but more than a little out of place in his expensive designer suit and sun-kissed blond hair. “Really sorry about your friend.”

“Thanks,” Logan said, and then they shook hands, with an added half-hug/back slap combo that would normally have made Veronica want to roll her eyes. Somehow it seemed rather sweet in this context. 

Dick met her gaze, his mood uncharacteristically sober. “Ronnie.”

“Dick.”

Logan turned back to Veronica, swiped a hand across his face, and readjusted his cap. “I should go say hi,” he said, gesturing toward the other members of his squadron.

“Okay,” Veronica said. “We’ll be right here.”

Logan nodded, and kissed her quickly, before turning to join his unit, back straight, head high. 

& & &

Gonzo’s funeral was beautifully tragic.

And closed to the press, thanks to an understanding funeral director. Unfortunately, they couldn’t ban the press from the cemetery, only ask that they remain a respectful distance from the mourners. As far as Veronica could tell, the request had -- somewhat surprisingly -- been honored. 

Still, she and the others had kept close to Logan, trying to form some sort of human shield. Unfortunately, he was the tallest of all of them, so Veronica wasn’t sure how effective their efforts had been. And Logan had been too focused on keeping himself together to notice their odd behavior.

Veronica felt completely drained as she and Logan said their goodbyes to her dad, Wallace, and Mac, who’d driven out together, and to Dick, who’d surprisingly managed to make it to the service on his own. They walked back to the car hand in hand.

When they reached the BMW, Logan sighed, removed his cap, and held out the car keys. “Do you mind?” He ran his hand across his hair, rubbed his temple.

Veronica accepted the keys, holding his hand in both of hers for a long moment. He looked pretty awful, wan and pale and tense. She leaned into him, and it took him a moment to respond, his free arm looping loosely around her, the cap in his hand bouncing off of her shoulder blade. Logan leaned his cheek against the crown of her head, then stepped back.

Silently, they got into the car. 

“Here,” Veronica said, handing him a bottle of water.

He accepted without comment, took a long swig, then another. It’d been hot in the sun at the graveside ceremony, and Logan had served as an honorary pallbearer along with his unit. They’d formed a pathway from the hearse to the grave. The sight of them in their Navy best, rigidly at attention and saluting the flag-covered casket -- that’s what had finally gotten through all of Veronica’s defenses, though she didn’t let herself really examine why.

Wordlessly, Mac had handed over a few tissues, and Wallace had reached over to squeeze her shoulder. She’d heard her father sniffle once beside her, and then he’d tucked her arm through the crook of his elbow, standing close the rest of the graveside service.

She’d hauled herself back under control before Logan rejoined them at the end; he’d walked directly to her, arms wrapping tight around her for quite a while. He’d been shaking with the strain of it all.

Veronica glanced over at him before pulling out of the parking lot. “How’re you doing?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, his voice low and a little unsteady. 

“It was a beautiful service,” she offered.

He nodded, but didn’t answer.

Veronica couldn’t think of another obvious conversational gambit, so she let the silence stand. She kept her eyes on the road, but paid quite a bit of attention to him in her peripheral vision. He was sitting calmly, hands clasped around the half-empty water bottle in his lap. 

“When I enlisted,” he said, as they sped through the desolate beauty of the national forest, “I just wanted--” He stopped, frustrated.

Veronica glanced over, then back to the road, resisting her inclination to pepper him with questions until he told her all of the important stuff he was thinking about.

“I was well on my way to being a total fuck up,” he said finally. “And for a long time, I thought I deserved that.”

“Logan, no,” she said, because she couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t let that thought stand unchallenged.

“I didn’t have anything left, and that felt…” He shrugged. “I felt like I probably deserved that.” His head dropped back against the headrest and his eyes slipped closed. His voice was low when he continued, “I did some shitty things. Terrible, mean-spirited things, so being a pointless waste of space felt about right.”

Veronica ached for him, kicked herself again for cutting him so completely out of her life. She’d known, even then, that his transgressions weren’t large enough to justify walking away completely, but it had been so much easier to just leave _everything_ behind when she left Neptune. Fresh start -- new city, new friends, new Veronica. She knew it was stupid to be mad at herself for decisions made a decade ago, but some days the regret wasn’t easy to swallow.

Then again, she wasn’t sure either one of them would’ve made it as far as they had if they’d tried to stay together. She knew, looking back, that no matter how desperately they’d loved each other, they’d each needed to address their individual demons before they ever could have worked. 

She couldn’t help it; she reached over and touched his wrist. Logan opened his eyes, turned his head to look at her, and she could see the hurt, lonely, angry 19-year-old and the calm, grownup, grieving 29-year-old, both at once.

He tried to smile. “Eventually I realized self-pity wasn’t a good look.” Logan paused, chuckling roughly. “It was Dick who got through to me, if you can believe it.”

“Dick?” Veronica echoed.

“Well,” Logan continued, a fond smile on his face, “he was bitching about my refusal to go surfing, not my existential crisis.”

Veronica grinned, not quite believing she was saying it, but, “Thank God for Dick.”

Logan smirked tiredly, but let the obvious rejoinder pass. “Yeah. Weird, I know, but I realized I needed to either just give in and find a reliable oxy dealer, or do something to, I don’t know,” he shrugged, “deserve better.”

She ignored the bloom of panic at his casual mention of giving in to the type of addictive behavior that had ensnared his mother. She tried not to wonder just how close he’d come to that path. “Logan,” she said, pushing away memories of his mother’s suicide, of her own mother’s abandonment, “the fact that you even _thought_ about all this stuff is proof enough that you’re a good man.”

Logan shifted uncomfortably and made a soft sound of disbelief. 

“You are,” she insisted. “If you weren’t, you wouldn’t feel this amount of regret over things that -- terrible as they may have been -- you did in the midst of some pretty awful shit.”

“We torched a community swimming pool, Veronica,” Logan said, embarrassment and regret ringing clear in his voice. “It’s hard to wave that one away.”

Veronica nodded at the road before her. “I’m _not_ excusing it,” she said. She still remembered the dawning realization that summer that she would lose him -- to death or to the kind of amoral sense of entitlement that turned her stomach. She’d long since forgiven him for that frenetic, awful summer, but she hadn’t ever been able to quite forget it. “That definitely wasn’t your finest hour.”

“I donate to--” he started, but then stopped, turning to look out the window.

She glanced over, surprised to find that he’d shifted away a bit, leaning against the door. She knew he was the only person other than her father who could really _read_ her, and hoped like hell he hadn’t picked up on her lingering disappointment from that long-ago summer. Because he’d been a selfish, broken-down boy lashing out at the world, and that had very little to do with the centered, generous man he’d become. “What?” 

Logan shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know, just trying to make amends, I guess. I donate to the community center.”

She nodded, recognizing how much he didn’t want her to pursue that topic, and swallowed her inevitable curiosity. “What were you saying about enlisting?” she asked instead. He’d told her some stories -- Dick’s sincere but misguided offer to help him dodge the draft, that anxious night in the hotel before shipping off to Officer Candidate School. But Logan usually deflected attention from the _service_ part the military, talking instead about adrenaline and fighter planes. 

He grinned, injected a bit of humor into his voice when he answered, “Trying to make amends?”

“Amends for what?”

Logan pushed himself deeper into the seat, leaning his head back against the headrest. “For this,” he said, gesturing at the steering wheel. “For this easy money that I didn’t earn, that Aaron didn’t _deserve_. For all of it. I guess I think…” He stopped, frustrated. “I wanted to do something to be worth all of this _stuff_ I had. To, I don’t know, give back.”

She didn’t answer, couldn’t figure out exactly what to say.

He looked over at her, a slightly sadder version of his trademark smirk making an appearance. “Under this Hollywood ne’er-do-well exterior beats the heart of a true patriot.”

She laughed, because that’s the reaction he wanted, but she knew his joke contained more truth than he’d like to admit. So she grinned over at him and sang, “ _Well, I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m freeeeeee_ …”

“God,” Logan said, wrinkling his nose and reaching for the radio. “ _Please_ never sing that again.”

& & &

Damn stupid song was still in her head the next morning, which Veronica realized only when she started humming it in the shower. “Ugh,” she said, and tried to persuade her mind to get stuck on Rihanna or American Authors or that stupid, catchy Disney song instead.

Logan was already gone for the day, back to regular duty at the Naval Air Station. She thought it would be good for him -- for his whole unit, probably. But she knew she would be a little jittery all day, a little concerned about him flying (and about _rocket-powered ejection seats_ ) until he landed safely and checked in.

A little compulsively, she checked her phone before she even finished getting dressed. Nothing from Logan, but a text from Mac.

_I think we need a new plan_. There was a link, and when the TMZ mobile site loaded on her phone’s browser, Veronica dropped onto the bed, clutching her forgotten shirt in one hand. “Shit.”

_Another Tragedy for Logan Echolls_ , blared the headline, and the picture they’d chosen to illustrate said tragedy was from the cemetery. Logan and Veronica with their arms wrapped around each other, snapped from the perfect angle to capture both of their faces -- her cheek pressed to his chest, his service hat resting against her back, restrained grief etched in the lines of his face. As a photographer, she could objectively understand why they’d selected the picture -- the perfect cut of his uniform juxtaposed by the heart-breaking look on his face conveyed the tragic toll service members sometimes paid; as Logan’s girlfriend, she wanted to punch the photo editor of TMZ in the face. 

“Goddamnit,” Veronica cursed, tossing her phone onto the mattress. 

Not only did pictures of Veronica being published today mean it was too risky to pose as Trina-Echolls’-friend-Amber, but this was the _exact_ kind of coverage that Logan had been dreading.

After a long moment of wallowing in her anger and helplessness, Veronica took a breath, pulled on her now-slightly-crumpled purple blouse, and picked up her phone.

_There’s some press coverage. I’m really sorry_. she texted to Logan.

Then she replied to Mac. _Fucking vultures. I’m on my way in._

She threw her phone in her bag, grabbed her old black leather jacket, and took the elevator down to her car, twitchy with irritation. She didn’t get the same satisfaction from aggressive driving as Logan did, but on occasion, she would take out some of her frustration by cranking the music and slamming the accelerator to the floor. Today seemed like a loud rock kind of day, so she flipped to the satellite radio station to Alt Nation and turned the volume up to _irresponsible_.

The Audi was responsive, and sped up quickly as she turned out of the garage. So quickly that it almost didn’t register -- Berto Flores, arms crossed, leaning against the scaffolding erected around the partially completed building across the street.

Watching her.

Veronica didn’t slow, didn’t stop, mostly because she was too shocked to figure out what the appropriate reaction should be. He wasn’t supposed to be anyone she saw ever again, and she _definitely_ hadn’t been prepared for him to be in her neighborhood. Across from her front door.

Though to be fair, his painting company was working on the coffee shop in the ground floor of the building across the street. It could be a coincidence.

It didn’t _feel_ like one, though. It felt purposeful. Predatory.

She patted her bag, felt the suddenly kind of _reassuring_ lump of her gun inside.

“Shit,” she said, reaching for her the console. She flipped over to communication menu and called her dad. “Dad, are you at the office?”

“Yeah, honey. What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted, and all of a sudden she felt kind of silly for calling. She’d be there in ten minutes and could tell him in person. What little there was to tell. “I don’t know exactly what to make of this, but the company Berto works for is painting that building across the street. You know the one?”

“The one with the stupid name?”

“The Vü, yeah. That’s it,” she confirmed. Though she really didn’t have a leg to stand of in terms of stupid building names, since she and Logan lived at The Pinnacle. “He was standing outside just now.” And somehow saying it aloud made it sound _so_ inconsequential. Berto was _standing on a sidewalk_ outside his job site and suddenly she was unnerved and calling her dad for reassurances? She blew out a frustrated breath. “You know what? Never mind.”

But her dad sounded a bit concerned when he asked, “Did he see you?”

What he meant was, _was he watching you?_ , and Veronica wasn’t sure. But she thought so.

“Yes,” she answered, reluctantly. 

“Okay,” her dad said. “I’ll see you in a couple minutes?”

“Yeah.” 

She’d only just hung up, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel as she waited at a red light, when her phone rang. She frowned at Weevil’s name on the display, but accepted the call. “Hey.”

“I need a favor.”

Veronica swallowed back her instinctive protest. This probably wasn’t a great time for her, but she figured that fire hadn’t exactly been the best timing for him. And she definitely owed him. “What’s up?” she asked.

“That fucking sheriff is holding my shop hostage,” he answered in a low, angry growl.

She tried to untangle that. “What do you mean?”

“Crime scene,” he answered. “Lamb won’t release it because of the investigation.”

“Oh.” That sounded about right -- the sheriff’s department tying up the have-nots in red tape and frustration, just because they could. Or possibly for more nefarious purposes -- she wondered if there were any zoning initiatives on Weevil’s block, or rich investors looking for more real estate to gentrify.

“Yeah. And that investigation ain’t doing anyone any favors,” Weevil continued. “The fuck do I care if the sheriff identifies which gangbanger drove down here for that? I need to demo and rebuild. Now. Today.”

She understood enough about running a small business to know that every day you can’t open, you lose money. Too many days in a row, and you lose the business. “Okay,” she answered, buying time, trying to figure out how she could help. “The Sheriff isn’t really my biggest fan,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, well, he hasn’t brought false charges against _you_ this year, so you’re probably in a better position than me,” Weevil snapped back.

She breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth, and pulled the Audi to the curb outside Mars Investigations. “Look, my dad knows a couple people in the fire department. Let me work on this for a bit, see what we can do to help. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” he answered, dialing his attitude all the way back to mildly irritated. 

He disconnected, and Veronica cranked the radio back up with a sarcastic, “You’re welcome.”

& & &

Keith’s conversation with his friend, Candy, was fairly one-sided, once he’d explained the purpose for his call. He nodded a few times, offered a couple “Uh-huhs,” but that was about it. And when he hung up, and he didn’t even have to say anything -- Veronica already knew the answer. 

“Really?” she asked, incredulous. “They’re still processing it?”

“According to Candy, whoever set the fire wasn’t terribly concerned about it being labelled arson. The gas cans were left inside the garage.”

Veronica slammed her palm on the desk. “So what could possibly be left to process?”

“Nothing,” her dad confirmed. “And yet the sheriff’s department said they want their detectives to have access to the untouched scene for at least the rest of this week.”

Veronica considered the sheriff’s directive. If the fire department’s arson investigators were already through with the scene, what could a couple of undereducated, corrupt sheriff’s deputies possibly glean from the burnt out shop? There was no plausible reason for the shop to be held five days after the damn fire. Which meant -- “They’re just doing this to screw with Weevil.”

“In so many words.” Her dad tossed a pen onto his desk. “Yes.”

“It’s not enough that his shop burned down, and he might lose his business just as a natural part of life kind of sucking sometimes?” she raged. “They want to _actively make it harder_ for Weevil to stay legit?”

“He’s a PCHer, too, Veronica,” her dad pointed out. “Let’s not make it like he’s above reproach.”

“This place,” she muttered, her anger deflating abruptly. Because it was hard to be maintain your rage when the same shitty things happened over and over again, to the same people. She scratched at a nick in her desk with her thumbnail. “Are there any other favors we can call in to try to help Weevil?”

“Veronica--”

“I know, I know -- I didn’t light the match,” she interrupted, waving that particular truism away. “But I still want to help. How long do you think he can wait to start rebuilding? He’s got a family, and the shop is his income.”

“Doesn’t he have insurance?” her father asked.

Veronica shrugged. “Probably, but coverage varies. And who knows what his deductible is.” 

“I’ll make a couple calls.” Her dad gave her an evaluating look. “Now what happened with Berto Flores?”

Veronica’s mouth tightened. Here, in the safe, familiar confines of their office, her uneasiness seemed like an overreaction. “I think it was just a coincidence,” she answered slowly. “I mean, Flanagan Painting is working in that building. So I saw him there.” She shrugged, not totally convinced by her own points, but really wanting to be. “Doesn’t seem so improbable, right?”

Keith folded his hands together, leaning back in his chair. “It could be a coincidence,” he allowed. But he was humoring her, she could tell.

Veronica lifted an eyebrow. “But?”

“But you’re the one who argued -- convincingly, I might add,” he ducked his chin, fixing her with that steady gaze, “that Berto Flores is not a nice guy. We don’t know exactly what his intentions are with respect to Sonia Rodriguez, but doesn’t hiring a PI to find her feel a little bit like stalking by proxy? Now that we know he’s not looking for his out-of-control little sister, I mean.”

“Yes,” Veronica answered, clasping her hands together because she didn’t really need her dad to see how shaken she was by the implication. “But I can’t even find Sonia, so what good am I to Berto?”

“He doesn’t know you can’t find her. Or at least he’s not convinced of that.” Keith leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “You’re a possible conduit to Sonia.”

She breathed slowly, carefully. “If he wanted to get to me, why wouldn’t he just walk in that door?” she asked, gesturing toward the outer office. “This building is basically insecure. The Pinnacle,” she continued, her mouth twisting with distaste around the condo building’s stupid name, “has several layers of security. Why would he just... loiter outside? What’s the point?”

Her dad’s expression tightened, just fractionally, but she could read him as well as he could read her. He was trying to conceal his own worry. “To unnerve you. And it worked -- didn’t it?”

& & &

END CHAPTER SIX


	7. Chapter 7

Veronica parked at the curb and stared at the small, stucco house, feeling a pretty intense hit of deja vu. Weevil and Jade lived a few streets over from where Weevil had grown up, but if Veronica didn’t know better, she’d think they’d just moved into Weevil’s grandmother’s old place. The resemblance was startling.

As she walked up the stairs to the door, she could hear a child playing -- Valentina singing a nonsensical song to herself. Veronica smiled and knocked on the frame of the barred screen door.

Almost immediately, Jade appeared and pulled the door open. “Veronica,” she greeted with a warm smile. “Please, come in.”

“Nice to see you again, Jade,” Veronica answered, stepping inside. Their house was small, the living room flawlessly decorated with deep yellows and bright reds. “I’m really sorry about the shop.”

Jade nodded, but didn’t answer, turning instead to catch the little girl running toward them, her long black hair unfurling behind her like a banner. “Slow down, chiquita.” Jade picked her up, straightening Valentina’s light pink t-shirt. “Can you say hi to Veronica?” Valentina turned her face away, suddenly shy, and Jade laughed softly. “She’ll be climbing on you in five minutes. Eli’s in here -- can I get you anything?”

“Oh, thanks -- I’m fine.” Veronica followed Jade and Valentina into the small but clearly remodeled kitchen -- neutral floor tiles, dark wood cabinets, and stainless steel appliances.

Weevil sat at the kitchen table, papers spread in a semicircle in front of him. He looked up with a glower. “V.”

Valentina squirmed in her mother’s arms until Jade placed her back on the floor, then ran to her father. “Papi, pick me up,” she demanded.

Weevil’s expression softened, and he hoisted his daughter onto his knee. “You met Papi’s friend, Veronica?”

Veronica was a little surprised to hear him describe her as a friend, but didn’t comment. Fascinated, she watched him with Valentina -- this badass biker guy holding his tiny, bossy daughter with gentle hands. Carefully, he pulled her purple plastic barrette free and smoothed her hair, before snapping the barrette back into place.

It was kind of adorable.

He glanced over at her. “You know anything about commercial insurance?”

Veronica blinked. “I know my dad and I have a ridiculously high premium for errors and omissions coverage.”

Weevil jabbed the papers in front of him with his finger. “These assholes are--”

“Eli,” Jade interrupted with a warning look. Valentina caught the exchange, looking between her parents before hiding her smile against Weevil’s chest. Veronica knew from the mischievous look on Valentina’s face that a new word had just been added to her vocabulary.

Weevil winced. “These jerks are trying to say _I_ torched the shop so they don’t have to pay.”

Of course. Of _course_ the insurance carrier would raise an arson defense. Veronica wondered exactly how many more ways this fire would end up screwing Weevil. “I’m not an expert on insurance coverage, but I’m happy to dig in on this. First -- give me a dollar.”

Weevil just stared at her. “You want a dollar?” 

Valentina wriggled out of his lap, running toward the living room and sing-songing, “These Ess-Ohs!”

Veronica fought hard to keep her amusement under wraps as Jade fixed Weevil with a reproachful look.

“Sorry, Mami,” Weevil said. Once Jade followed Valentina into the living room, he turned back to Veronica, who held out her hand expectantly. Grumbling, Weevil pulled out his wallet and rifled through the bills, finding a five-dollar bill and handing it over. 

“Thanks,” Veronica said, then grabbed his hand and gave it a single, businesslike pump. “I’m officially your lawyer. Anything you tell me regarding the fire will be covered by attorney-client privilege, but--” she held up a finger to forestall his comments, “please be aware that I am ethically bound to report any future criminal behavior you’re planning that could result in imminent death or substantial injury.”

“You’re my lawyer now, huh?” He tilted his head in that sarcastic manner of his. “What’s your hourly rate?”

She smoothed the five dollar bill against the tabletop, “Don’t worry your pretty little head over that -- this retainer will last you a while.”

He looked like he wanted to protest, but said only, “So this means you’re gonna make--” he paused, lowering his voice with a quick glance towards the living room, “these assholes give me my money?”

Veronica tapped a finger on the array of paperwork. “Are these your policy documents?” He nodded. “Mind if I take them home for some light bedtime reading?”

Weevil snorted. “If you want to read _this_ in bed, your boy definitely ain’t getting it done.”

Veronica was absolutely _not_ going to get into a discussion with Weevil about Logan’s considerable sexual gifts, so she simply rolled her eyes at him. “Weevil, seriously -- can we talk about MS-17?”

“I’m not in the mood for a lecture.” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

“Yeah, well, I’m not in the mood for whining.” Her phone buzzed and she said, “Hang on. Sorry.” It was a text from Logan. She selected his name.

_Back on the ground._

So no rocket-propelled emergency exits from his plane today. She felt a bit of her tension ease, but told herself not to smile vapidly down at her phone. At least not in front of Weevil.

“That flyboy?” he asked.

Veronica didn’t bother to respond, simply typing, _Good flight?_ before tucking her phone back into her bag. She refocused on Weevil. “So. Gangs.”

“Yeah, maybe you should come down out of your fancy downtown tower and live in the neighborhood before you try to talk to me about how to handle a threat.”

And the hostility was back. Excellent. Veronica made herself take a beat, reminded herself how much she bristled when people tried to warn her off of things. “I’m worried about you, Weevil. I’m worried about Valentina and Jade.”

He pointed at her, his voice low and hard. “Don’t talk about my family.”

She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “And here I thought we were friends.”

“We’re friends as far as that goes,” he answered with a shrug. “But we still live in different worlds. What do you think happens if I just let that fire go, huh? You don’t think that sends a message?”

“What if that fire was just a warning?” she shot back. Because Weevil had been in _their_ neighborhood, and in scary gang logic, maybe that was an incursion that needed an answer. A suggestion to never come back to their turf. And maybe if Weevil left it alone, that was all it would ever be. 

Weevil shook his head. “Yeah? And what if it wasn’t?”

& & &

Logan arrived home at least an hour earlier than Veronica expected. Startled, she turned away from the mirror, a kohl eyeliner pencil in her hand.

He paused just inside the doorway of their bedroom and took in her ratty old Stanford shorts, long-line bustier, and wavy auburn wig. “Well,” he said, one eyebrow jumping up as he began to smile. “You nailed my secret fantasy -- bonus points for the track team shorts.”

Veronica snorted, and turned her attention back to the mirror. She was trying to figure out what makeup Amber Evans, heiress to untold fortunes and vapid fashionista, would wear. The dark hair wasn’t helping -- it made her look paler than normal, which made dark eye makeup seem too girls-night-at-the-club. She was going for daytime-tacky with a hint of starfucking desperation. Tricky combination to hit.

“Oh,” she said, tossing the eyeliner aside and turning back to him. “Can I borrow your car tomorrow?”

He tugged his shirt over his head and lobbed it in the direction of the hamper. “I guess,” he answered, scratching his rib cage absently as he walked to the bureau. “Dare I ask why?”

“My dad and I are hitting some clothing manufacturers up in LA as Amber Evans, prospective boutique proprietor, and her long-suffering business advisor, Tommy. Amber here,” she explained, twirling a lock of long auburn hair, “needs an 09er car.”

“You drive an Audi,” he pointed out, smirking at her. “That’s pretty 09er, Veronica.”

“ _You_ have a convertible BMW. _Way_ more ostentatious than my little silver sedan.” She shifted, and his appreciative gaze dropped to her bustier-assisted cleavage. “Amber’s not one for subtlety.”

“I can see that,” he answered, nodding with smug approval.

She watched him as he rifled through the bureau, pulling out a faded brown t-shirt that she thought she remembered from college. Comfort clothes, she thought, and reached up to pull off her wig. He glanced over at her once he’d pulled on the shirt and gave her a half smile. “I’m gonna…” He indicated the living room with his thumb, and she nodded.

Biting her lip, she drifted to the bedroom door, watching as he pulled open the glass sliders and stepped out onto the balcony. Brooding. Clearly the first day back without Gonzo had been tough.

She wanted to go to him, to comfort him if she could, but she of all people understood needing space to process. So she turned back to the bedroom, shrugging out of the bustier in favor of one of her own comfort t-shirts. Slowly, she scrubbed her face clean of Amber’s makeup. 

When she emerged from the bedroom and headed for the kitchen to see if there was anything she could throw together for dinner, Logan was still on the balcony, leaning his forearms against the railing. 

He must have heard her, because he turned and caught her eye, lifting an inviting hand in her direction. Veronica changed course, then stepped out onto the balcony to join him. He hugged her to his side, then stepped back, easing behind her so they were facing the ocean, a mile or so away, but visible from their penthouse. 

Veronica leaned back against his chest. “Tough day?” she murmured, knowing he would only answer if he wanted to.

“Yeah,” he answered, so low she could barely hear him. “Felt wrong, being in the ready room without him.” 

They stood quietly for a few minutes, the breeze occasionally ruffling her hair, pushing stray strands across her face until she reached up to push them away. Logan lifted his hand from hers to smooth her hair back, gentle as always.

“It was a little scary,” he admitted, then shrugged. “Getting back on the horse, I mean.”

She gave an encouraging, “Mmmm.”

“Felt like my first day in a Growler again,” he said, then pressed a kiss to her temple. 

“I’m proud of you, Logan,” she said softly. “Of what you do.”

His arms tightened around her, and she could feel his breath hitch. He didn’t answer, but that was okay. She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed his wrist, then wrapped herself back in his arms to watch the distant waves.

& & &

Visiting clothing factories turned out to be way less fun that it sounded like it should be. Since clothing itself came in a whole bunch of different sizes, shapes, and colors, Veronica hadn’t expected the production to be, essentially, monotonous assembly lines.

The names of the companies varied, as did the number of employees and the size of the shop floor, but the one constant was row after row of seamstresses, almost exclusively women, working quickly and passing the fabric along. Many of the workers were paid by the piece, which meant that they skipped breaks, didn’t eat lunch, and worked long hours, just to scrape and claw their way to something approximating a livable wage.

The fourth shop they visited was in a small industrial park in Gardena, not too far south of LAX and only a couple blocks from the freeway. The factory was tucked between a wholesale tire place and a small machinist shop. When Veronica and her dad got out of the car, they both reflexively glanced up at the jumbo jet that seemed freakishly close in the smoggy sky. Veronica looked east and saw parallel lines of jets headed for LAX’s multiple runways. 

It was a strange sight.

She walked around the front of Logan’s BMW and ran a hand along her hairline, making sure the wavy auburn wig was still anchored in place.

“You’re fine,” her dad murmured, almost too low for her to hear over the distant whine of jet engines, and the closer traffic noise of cars on the raised freeways.

She nodded and fell back, allowing him to open the door for her. “Ms. Evans,” he said as she moved past, his tone deferential. 

Veronica slipped into character, nodding enthusiastically. “Thanks, Tommy!”

Wentrcek Manufacturers clearly didn’t host potential customers that often -- a young man looked up with wide, startled eyes as they entered. His desk was covered with piles of paper and files, and the small reception area would probably be more accurately described as his workspace. There was barely enough room between the small desk and the door for Veronica and her father to stand and wait. 

Veronica pulled off her dark, oversized sunglasses and gestured to the startled man. “Hi!”

“Uh, hello,” he said, eyes wide as he stared at her, his gaze dropping repeatedly to the low v-neck of her skimpy purple dress. He was young, maybe even still in college, and spoke with an eastern European accent that Veronica couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“I’m Amber Evans!” Veronica announced, watching him with enthusiasm. 

“Okay,” he said, fumbling a little as he pushed himself to his feet. “I mean -- I’m Lazlo. Laz.” 

Keith stepped forward, all business, and offered his hand. “Thomas Franklin. Ms. Evans’ business manager. We have an appointment with a…” he glanced down at his leather folio, brow furrowed, running his finger down a blank page, “Mira Reznik.” He snapped the folio shut and fixed an expectant gaze on Laz.

Veronica glanced around, keeping her expression pleasantly vacant, even as she catalogued details. 

“Sure,” Laz answered. “Let me just…” He picked up the phone and pressed a couple buttons. “There’s an Amber--” He froze, panicked.

“Amber Evans,” Keith supplied.

“Amber Evans is here to see you,” Laz said in a rush. He nodded once, then again, and hung up. “Mira will be right out.”

“Awesome!” Veronica chirped, then turned away from the desk. She twirled a lock of hair around one finger, carefully not tugging hard enough to test the mass of bobby pins holding the wig in place. She kept her attention on the far wall, committing the companies and brands listed on framed awards and letters to memory. Compared to the first three factories, Wentrcek’s clientele seemed a little more high-end. 

And since the Eleven Jeans brand was the highest of the high-end luxury brands, she was hoping this place might hold some useful information for them. She’d already heard more than enough about the _scientifically superior_ methods of creating well-worn wrinkles in brand new denim.

A small, vengeful part of Veronica kind of hoped those chemically induced creases and faded patches would at _least_ give the vapid 09ers eczema.

“Ms. Evans!”

Veronica whirled around, a cheerful smile in place, to find a tall, willowy blonde woman approaching, one perfectly manicured hand extended. “I’m Mira Reznik. A pleasure.”

“Mira!” Veronica shook her hand, scrunching her nose and her shoulders in pretend delight. “Thanks so much for seeing us! This is Tommy.” She leaned in close, got an unexpected lungful of Mira’s expensive perfume, and lowered her voice. “He helps me with the money stuff!”

Mira greeted Keith cordially, then ushered them back through the key-card entry door behind Laz’s desk. They walked through a slightly larger office, and then out onto a platform overlooking the factory floor from eight or ten feet up. The entire room hummed with the sound of a hundred sewing machines whirring at once. 

The stale, un-air-conditioned air didn’t seem to faze Mira, who turned to Veronica with a glossy magazine smile and said, “Welcome to Wentrcek Manufacturers.”

Ignoring the way the wig sat on her head, acting like an unwanted layer of insulation in the overheated air, Veronica clapped her hands together in feigned excitement as she turned to the work floor. She moved to the edge of the platform, her hands landing on the small railing as she looked down at the workers.

Seamstresses crowded elbow to elbow, bent over the dark blue fabric in front of them, and working impossibly fast. Veronica let her gaze slide from one worker to the next, noting that -- just as with the three other factories they’d visited -- the seamstresses were Asian, Latino, and Indian. Not a single white face that Veronica could see. Other than Mira, of course.

Veronica pushed aside her indignation. “Wow, they work so fast!” she chirped, glancing at her father quickly. He maintained an impassive expression, but she could see him looking from face to face, searching for Sonia.

“We can turn orders of up to 25,000 pairs in a week,” Mira said. “Including the high-end finishes.” She lowered her voice and leaned closer to Veronica, her tone conspiratorial. “Some of the other fashion houses add three days per ten thousand pairs if you want whiskers or stains. Not us.”

Veronica widened her eyes, feeling the heaviness of the over-heated air in her lungs. “That? Is _amazing_!”

“But you are looking for smaller order sizes, yes?” Mira asked.

Veronica nodded. “Exactly! I guess Tommy thinks like 200 pairs at a time -- is that too small for you?”

“Of course not. We’d be delighted to work with you.” Mira swept her gaze down Veronica’s frame. “What are you -- size 4?”

Feigning embarrassment, Veronica nodded. “I need to get back down to a 2.”

“One moment,” Mira said, then took four quick steps to the edge of the platform, leaning down to addess only woman in the room not sitting in front of a sewing machine, who could only be the floor manager. 

Veronica focused once more on the seamstresses, looking for Sonia. Just as Mira turned back to them, Veronica felt her father stiffen slightly beside her. “Three o’clock,” he murmured, “turquoise earrings.” He stepped away.

Mira returned, holding out a freshly sewn pair of jeans for Veronica. “With our compliments.”

Veronica beamed at Mira. “Aren’t _you_ the sweetest?” she chirped, accepting the gift and holding them against her waist, gauging the fit. “Perfect!” she said, chancing a glance at her father. 

He moved closer. “Ms. Reznik, can I ask about your workforce?”

As Mira answered, Veronica drifted away, fondling the jeans in her grip and searching for a woman with turquoise earrings off to their right. Her breath caught when she spotted the woman her father had indicated, almost all the way at the end of a row of diligently working women -- it definitely _could_ be Sonia Rodriguez, though Veronica would have to get closer to confirm.

She felt giddy, and told herself to get a grip. She needed an excuse to wander down onto the factory floor, and she figured that type of request wouldn’t sit too well with Mira.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she slid it out, checking the caller ID. Mac. 

Veronica couldn’t remember the last time Mac had actually _called_ her. Mac was a texter -- she claimed it was faster and more efficient, though Veronica suspected she just hated talking on the phone. Regardless, the fact that she was calling meant something was wrong.

Veronica took another step away from Mira and her father and accepted the call, bringing the phone to her ear. “Daddy! Hi! You’ll never guess where we are right now!”

Mac’s voice was unsteady when she answered. “Veronica, something happened. I thought I should -- I mean…”

Trapped in her charade, Veronica couldn’t let the flood of panic she was feeling color her response. She took a quick breath to steady herself, and said, “Daddy, I can barely hear you -- where are you?”

“I’m okay,” Mac said, and Veronica didn’t believe her in the slightest.

“What’s going on?” Anyone who knew her at all would be able to hear the fear underlying her words. She pressed her free hand flat against her thigh, hoping the pressure would keep her from visibly shaking

“Berto,” Mac began, then stopped. Veronica held her breath. Mac cleared her throat and tried again. “He was in the building -- at the office when I left. He--”

“Amber?” her dad asked. “Everything okay?”

He’d picked up on her distress, of course. Veronica told herself to pull it together and shot some approximation of a carefree grin over her shoulder at him. “Just Daddy checking in. Barry showed up drunk again.” Veronica gave an exaggerated shrug. “You know how he is, right? What can you do?” She hoped her father understood her plea for help. “So then what happened?” she asked Mac, her upbeat tone a complete mismatch for the way her pulse was pounding with adrenaline.

“I’m okay,” Mac repeated, and Veronica _really_ didn’t believe her. “He just… he was really angry. He thinks we found Sonia and are just keeping it from him.”

Veronica’s gaze shifted to the woman with the turquoise earrings before she turned away, walking back towards the door between the factory floor and the office. She pressed a hand against the wall to steady herself. “I guess he really _was_ drunk,” she said, and she hoped Mira would mistake the shakiness in her voice for laughter. “What else did he say?”

“Nothing, he--” Mac stopped, her voice unsteady now. “I was little freaked, but Mark showed up -- I had a security protocol to show him or I wouldn’t have invited him here,” Mac explained, and Veronica realized that Mac’s Technology Guy was named Mark. And that he apparently had very good timing.

She wanted _so badly_ to break character and just _talk_ to Mac, reassure her. The closest she could come was, “And _then_ what did he say?”

“He--” Mac stopped. Veronica thought she might be laughing. “He punched Berto. It was -- but I had time to grab the taser, and I tased him. I tased Berto.”

Fuck. Veronica couldn’t come up with a single thing to say in response that would be appropriate for Amber. Because Mac was a pacifist, so if she’d tasered Berto, she must have been terrified. Veronica glanced at her dad. He was watching her closely, and she held his gaze for a moment, then turned back to the wall. “Oh, my God!” she managed. “Did they arrest Barry for that?”

“No.” Mac sounded … apologetic? Veronica shook her head slightly, but before she could frame a response, Mac continued, “Mark and I ran out of there. I mean, there’s no one else in the building after like 3, so we didn’t… But when the cops got there, I guess Berto was gone.”

“Good,” Veronica said, and tried to save it. “Barry would be…” she shook her head, glancing again at her dad for help, “just worthless in jail.”

Behind her, she heard her father begin to make their excuses, and she knew he’d figured out enough to know they needed to go. She lowered her voice. “I’ll call you right back.” Projecting Amber’s chirpy cheerfulness again, Veronica said, “Great, Daddy. I’ll talk to you later!”

She turned desperate eyes to her father, who was already moving toward her. “I’m afraid Ms. Evans has an evening engagement, Ms. Reznik. Thank you so much for your time.” 

Veronica offered niceties and thanked Mira again for the jeans clutched to her chest as her father ushered her out.  She spared one last glance to the woman who might be Sonia, but decided Berto’s confrontation with Mac was more urgent.

“That really might’ve been her,” she said to her father as they reached the car.

“I know,” he answered. “We’ll come back.”

& & &

As they pulled away from Wentrcek Manufacturers, Veronica scrolled to Mac’s number and hit send. The call kicked over to the Bluetooth mid-ring, and when Mac answered, her distress was crystal clear through Logan’s high-end sound system.

“We’re on our way back right now,” Veronica said in lieu of a greeting. “Where are you?”

“My place,” Mac answered. “Was that -- should we have gone somewhere else?”

“No, you did great, Mac Attack.” Veronica shared a brief, concerned look with her dad. Because Mac’s building was relatively secure with its alarmed entries and sturdy old doors. But there was the upsetting possibility that Berto had followed Mac and now knew where she lived. “Can you tell my dad what happened? You’re on speaker.”

“Hi, Keith,” Mac said.

He swallowed hard, but his voice was warm and soothing when he answered. “Hi, Mac. Tough day, huh?”

She laughed shakily. “Yeah.”

As Mac described the confrontation with Berto for her dad’s sake, Veronica tried to piece things together. She pulled the wig off, absently tugging free the dozens of bobby pins holding her own hair in place. What could Berto possibly hope to gain by terrorizing Mac?

“Have you seen a doctor?” Keith asked, his tone mild and calm -- but the question still snapped Veronica’s attention back to his conversation with Mac.

“ _Do_ you need a doctor, Mac?” Veronica demanded, sounding a little off-kilter now herself. Her dad touched her hand briefly.

“No, I’m fine,” Mac insisted. “Just maybe a couple bruises.”

Before Veronica could digest this confirmation that Berto had gotten physical enough with Mac to leave a mark, she heard the low rumble of a man’s voice on the other end of the phone. “Is Mark with you?”

“Yes,” Mac answered. “Wait -- how did--?”

“You said his name earlier,” Veronica said. “I swear, I didn’t pry. Is Mark okay?”

Because Veronica had a feeling that Mac was operating from a place of shock and denial, probably not fully aware of her own injuries. But she would definitely bring her -- client? date? boyfriend? -- for treatment if he needed to go.

Mac must have put her hand over the phone, because Veronica couldn’t hear words -- only concerned tones, male and female. And then Mac was back, sounding slightly more herself, more steady. “Mark hurt his hand. We’re going to the hospital.”

“Okay, good.” Veronica checked the mile markers whizzing past and groaned. They were still at least forty minutes from Neptune. “We’ll meet you there, okay?”

“Sure,” Mac agreed.

“Mac,” Keith said, in that proud papa tone that always made Veronica feel safe and loved, “you did all the right things, you know. I’m real proud of you.”

Mac shakily mumbled thanks and ended the call.

Veronica sat back, her hands smoothing the auburn wig in her lap as she tried to calm down. She needed to figure out what should happen next, but her panicked mind kept distracting her with unhelpful images of Berto hurting Mac, _bruising_ Mac. 

“I guess we need to figure out the Berto situation,” she said, more to force her mind to _stop_ the nightmarish possibilities than anything else. Because how _dare_ he touch Mac? Mac, who didn’t even like it when people _raised their voices_ to her, and this asshole had bruised her? Veronica was -- _furious_.

“Hey.”

She startled, then recovered. “Yeah?”

“I’ll drop you off at the hospital, but I need to go to the office. Make sure it’s locked up.” Keith indicated the car, reminding her it was Logan’s. “Is that okay?”

“Of course. I’ll have Logan meet me.” She forced a smile. “He can slum it in the Audi.”

Her dad nodded, staring at the highway for a long moment. “And Veronica?” he added, cold anger underlying his tone.

She looked over at him. “Yeah?”

“You worry about Mac and about finding Sonia.” Keith’s hands were tight on the steering wheel, his mouth set in a grim line. “Let me handle Berto.”

Oh, no. No way. Veronica was really good at exacting justice, and she already had a few dark but satisfying possibilities running through her imagination. “Dad--”

“Veronica, I accepted the case and handed it to you, and then it blew up. I’ll do this part.”

She wanted to argue, but recognized his tone of voice. He wouldn’t be easily persuaded, and maybe she should wait for a better moment to argue. “Let’s talk about it later,” she said finally. “I need to call Logan.”

& & &

Neither Mac nor Veronica were much for friend hugs in their normal, day-to-day lives, but Veronica made an exception when she found Mac sitting in the ER waiting room beside a wiry man holding an ice pack. Mac stood when she saw Veronica, and accepted the hug with a muttered, “Okay.”

Veronica pulled back, holding Mac’s hands in hers. “You’re okay?”

“Yes,” Mac said, at the same time as the man Veronica assumed was Mark said, “She’s refusing to see a doctor.”

Veronica released Mac, turning to face the man more fully. He was South Asian, with dark, thick hair, warm brown eyes, and a charming British accent. “Hi, I’m Mark,” He said, pushing himself upright. He shrugged a little, indicating the ice pack held against his right hand. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but they’re not sure whether I broke a finger or just mucked up some tendons.” 

Smiling, Veronica answered, “I’m Veronica. It’s great to meet you, though I’m really sorry about the circumstances.” Realizing somewhat belated she was still in Amber’s tacky purple dress, she added with a grimace. “Also really sorry about this outfit.” She turned back to Mac. “Now what’s this about refusing medical care?”

“Refusing medical care is a constitutionally protected right,” Mac said with a small grin. “Really, I’m okay.” 

“Bruises?” Veronica prompted, with a “come on” gesture as emphasis. “Let’s see.”

Mac flushed, glancing at Mark for a moment. “Just...” she started. “He grabbed me a little bit forcefully.” She tugged the sleeve of her deep green shirt up and turned to show Veronica four bruises on the back of her bicep. Finger marks. The angry blue was shocking against her pale skin, and Veronica knew that Berto’s grip on her must have been incredibly painful for the bruising to be so vibrant already.

Veronica’s hands clenched into fists, and she searched for something to say other than a long string of pointless cursing.

“Hey,” Logan greeted, walking quickly toward them from the ER entrance, because he had always had just excellent timing. 

Veronica turned to him, holding out her hand in some futile attempt to stop him from wading into this emotional quagmire. “Logan--”

“I just--” He stopped a step away from Veronica, but he was staring past her to the vivid marks on Mac’s arm. Logan’s jaw tensed. “This Berto guy put his hands on you?” he asked, lifting his gaze to Mac’s.

But it was Mark who answered, sounding nothing at all like a pleasant English chap all of a sudden. “He did. And knocked her into a wall. She won’t see a doctor.”

Mac tugged her sleeve back into place and gave them an exasperated look. “I’m _fine_.”

Logan nodded slowly, then stepped closer to Mac, one hand laid gently on the edge of her shoulder. “Mac. Please. For my peace of mind. Would you please just see a doctor while we’re here? I know you’re fine,” he said, cutting off her protests. “But adrenaline can mask a lot of stuff. You think the pain’s worst when they’re hitting you or crushing your arms. But you feel it more the next day.” 

Veronica’s chest was too tight, her breathing weirdly constricted listening to him explain what it’s like to be beaten.

Mac looked down for a long moment, considering, then sighed. “Fine. The three of you,” she said, shaking her head

“Thank you,” Logan said. Veronica touched his back, and he glanced over, gave her a reassuring smile.

“Mr. Bahmani?” A nurse in bright purple scrubs was standing just inside the waiting room, holding a patient file and looking around expectantly.

“Ah, that would be my X-ray, I presume,” Mark said. He paused for a moment, then leaned in to Mac and kissed her gently. “Thank you for seeing a doctor,” he said.

“Go on, the both of you,” Veronica insisted, shooing Mark toward the waiting nurse and Mac toward the check in desk. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Logan watched Mac until she followed a nurse back to the treatment rooms, then he turned to Veronica. “Nice dress, Amber.”

She grinned, tugging at the bodice to provide a little more coverage. Logan promptly shrugged out of his lightweight jacket and handed it over. “Thanks,” she said, and pulled it on. It was comically large, but it was warm and it smelled like him, so she didn’t particularly care how ridiculous she looked.

“That was Mac’s mystery guy?” he asked.

“Yes. Mark. Seems like a good chap,” she said, adding a bit of a British accent.

Logan and Veronica dropped into uncomfortable molded plastic chairs. He reached for her hand, pushing the too-long sleeve of his jacket out of the way. “So,” he said, “this Berto character.”

Veronica laced their fingers together and tipped her head back to lean against the wall. “Yeah.” She was kind of exhausted, now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

“Has he threatened you?” 

She closed her eyes. “Not exactly.” But she knew from his demeanor, from his reaction to the bruises on Mac’s skin that this wasn’t a subject he would let drop.

“Meaning?” he asked, his voice tight.

“He works for the company that’s painting some of the space in The Vü. You know, the building across the street from ours?” He made a neutral noise of understanding, and she added, “I saw him outside a couple days ago. I’m still not sure it was a threat.”

He didn’t answer for a long moment. “His original intention doesn’t matter as much to me right now as the fact that he knows where you live.”

“Where _we_ live,” she answered immediately, “in our secure building.”

“Veronica.” 

She opened her eyes to see her dad approaching.

“Dad? What’s wrong?” Logan gave her a strange look and she flushed. “I mean, other than--” She waved away her point. 

“I figured you would still be here,” her dad said, then nodded at Logan. “Logan.”

“Hi, Keith,” Logan answered. 

Keith sat on the other side of Veronica. “You need to see this.” He woke the iPad mini in his hands and selected an app, then a file. “It’s from the security camera at the office.”

Veronica raised her eyebrows. “You already got this off the hard drive?”

“I can do some of that stuff,” her dad answered defensively. “Look,” he said, and handed the iPad to Veronica. Logan leaned closer to see.

On the screen, black and white footage shot from a high angle showed the bottom two-thirds of the door to the Mars Investigations offices, the small landing in front, and the top of the stairwell leading up to the second floor. The office door opened and Mac’s legs appeared, then the rest of her as she stepped more fully into frame. She was carrying just her small wallet, which Veronica knew meant coffee break at the place two blocks away. 

Mac stopped short. The high angle made it difficult to see facial expressions, but Berto climbed the stairs into frame, his back to the camera. He moved closer to Mac, and even with no sound, even in black and white, even at this awkward angle -- he was _intimidating_. Mac took a step back, but Berto kept coming.

Veronica’s breathing sped up as she watched, wanting to look away, wanting to jump through the screen and stop this.

Berto reached for Mac, who tried to move away, to reach for the office door, but Berto had her, his hands gripping her upper arms as he held her in place, shook her a little. 

“Motherfucker,” Logan muttered.

Mac was struggling, trying to yank her arms free, and then she looked past him, craning her neck. Berto glanced behind him, then hurled Mac into the wall. She crumpled, nearly falling all the way to her knees, her hand moving immediately to her back where she’d collided with the railing. Then she was pushing herself back upright, and Mark appeared, gesturing and probably yelling, and when Berto moved to engage, Mark threw a wild punch. 

It was enough to throw Berto off balance, and he stumbled. Mac ran out of the frame, back into the office, but she reappeared quickly, as Berto advanced on Mark. Mac stepped forward and, with shaking hands, tasered Berto, who arched and then fell to the floor. 

Mac and Mark stood frozen, breathing hard and looking down at Berto, before Mark reached for her hand and they disappeared down the stairs.

Veronica slumped back in her seat, her heart racing, her anger freshly rekindled. 

Her father reached for the iPad and closed it. “I’m taking this to the Sheriff’s Department. Mac will at least be able to get a restraining order.”

“That asshole,” Logan snapped, “needs to be arrested.”

Keith nodded. “Agreed.”

Veronica looked at Logan. “Mac can’t stay at her place.”

“She can stay with us,” Logan agreed immediately. 

“Technology Guy might have other ideas,” Veronica said, but Logan and her father just looked at her blankly. “Never mind.”

& & &

Veronica slept badly. 

The first time she startled awake, she managed to stay quiet and not wake Logan. She lay under the comforter, forcing her muscles to relax one by one. Focusing on Logan’s slow, steady breathing helped her to regulate her own. It took quite a while to fall back asleep, and seemingly moments later, she jerked upright with a sharp, “No!”

“V’ronica?” Logan muttered, still half-asleep as he pushed himself up on one elbow. “Y’re okay.” He looped an arm around her hips, patting her sleepily. “C’mere.”

She moved into his arms willingly, gratefully even, letting him wrap his warm, steady body around hers. She hated the cliché, but really did feel safe in Logan’s embrace. At home, even. He drifted off quickly, but she didn’t, staring vacantly at the closet door as her mind reran awful images of Berto’s violence, and Mac’s terrified face.

The scariest part was thinking about what might have happened if Mark hadn’t arrived. 

Veronica shuddered. 

Bit by bit, she eased out Logan’s embrace and then out of bed, shivering without his body heat. She tugged on his Logan-sized sweatshirt with the faded NEWPORT emblazoned across the chest and retreated to the kitchen, rolling the sleeves up past her wrists. 

It wasn’t daylight yet, but Veronica knew she wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. She needed to think. She needed a plan. Eventually, she checked the refrigerator to make sure they still had raspberries and lemons, and then opened the pantry to gather the dry ingredients for muffins. 

Baking often helped her process things, particularly when she was upset. She prepared the lemon raspberry muffin batter using a large wooden spoon and elbow grease, not wanting to wake Logan with the mixer. Plus the combination of physical exertion and focusing on the clear, concise instructions of the recipe let her brain engage the Berto problem in the background. Because she mostly wanted to track Berto down and scare the shit out of him the way he’d terrorized Mac, but maybe her subconscious could come up with a more workable solution.

Once the muffins were tucked into the oven to bake, Veronica snuck back into the bedroom to retrieve her cell phone. _You guys feeling okay today?_ she texted Mac, who had elected to stay at Mark’s once he had acquired a splint and painkillers, and Mac had finished speaking with a deputy from the Sheriff’s department.

As much as Veronica had wanted to drag Mac (and Mark) back to the condo to stay in the guest room, she realized it probably would have been awkward. But because Mac wasn’t _there_ where Veronica could check on her, she wanted an update now, right now. She practically pounced on her phone when it buzzed.

_Tired, a little sore. Mark’s zonked out on pain meds._

Despite her impatience, she’d hoped Mac was still asleep. Mac wasn’t a morning person, so the fact that she was answering texts at 7 a.m. suggested she’d had at least as much trouble sleeping as Veronica.

_Can you call me real quick?_ Veronica stood in the middle of the kitchen, absently watching the muffins through the oven window. Her phone trilled and she answered immediately. “Hi,” Veronica answered softly. “Thanks for calling.”

“What’s up?” Mac asked, her tone low as well, probably to make she didn’t wake Mark.

Reflexively, Veronica glanced at the bedroom, but the door was still closed, with no signs of a conscious Logan. “The courthouse opens at 8:30,” Veronica answered.

Mac paused. “Okay,” she said, clearly lost. “That’s… nice.”

“Restraining order,” Veronica explained. “It won’t take more than a half hour.”

“Veronica, he was just--” She stopped short.

“Just _what_?” Veronica demanded. “You’re _injured_!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Mac shot back, and Veronica would gladly be the target of her anger if it meant Mac was processing this. Because Veronica knew from personal experience that nothing made you angrier than feeling _helpless_.  

Still, she was careful to keep her tone conversational when she answered -- because being _told_ what to do can make you pretty mad, too. “I know it’s just a piece of paper. I know all the arguments against it, but I don’t care.”

“There’s already a police report,” Mac pointed out. “They probably have a warrant out for his arrest.”

“If he violates a TRO, that’s a separate crime,” Veronica explained. “He could be held for that regardless of the assault charge.” 

“But aren’t restraining orders for…” Mac trailed off. “Like, battered women?”

Veronica let that stand, unanswered, for a moment. “There are two types of TROs -- one for domestic violence, and another for civil harassment. Because nothing is more civil than the threat of violence,” she added, her tone dark.

“Right, okay,” Mac answered slowly. “But he was at the office.”

“I…” Veronica shrugged, even though Mac couldn’t see her. “So?” Because the location of the attack didn’t particularly matter to Veronica.

“So he wasn’t, like, _targeting_ me,” Mac answered, quickly adding, “I don’t mean that _you’re_ the target. Just -- he wanted information, and he probably didn’t care which one of us was there to give it to him.”

“And he probably wouldn’t have attacked my dad,” Veronica pointed out. “Look, Berto may not have been there looking for _you_ , but that doesn’t matter right now. He attacked _you_ and he needs to stay the fuck away from _you_.” When Mac didn’t protest immediately, Veronica knew she’d won the argument. “Good! I’ll pick you up at eight. I have muffins!” 

She showered quickly, still doing her best not to wake Logan, though when she stepped out of the bathroom half-dressed, he was sitting up in bed, rubbing one hand lazily through his hair. “Well, good morning,” he greeted with a vaguely lecherous smile.

Veronica grinned. “Feeling frisky today?”

“I’m frisky every day,” he shot back, reaching for her hand to tug her closer. He leaned in and pressed a kiss between her breasts, his warm breath making her shudder. Logan quirked an eyebrow in invitation.

As much as she wanted to climb back in bed with him, she couldn’t. “Rain check?” she asked. “I’m taking Mac to get a TRO.”

Logan’s playfulness vanished, and he nodded. “Be careful?”

“You too, flyboy.” She smiled and kissed him quickly. “There’s a muffin for you on the counter.”

She rode the elevator to the lobby of the building, moving to the wall of windows so she could see the entire block. No sign of Berto. Feeling slightly less stressed, she took the stairs down two flights to the parking garage and hurried to her car.

Pulling out into traffic, she held her breath, even though it pissed her off to be so off-balance because of that asshole. The sidewalks were deserted, and she decided that she’d had just about enough of _that_ kind of paranoid jitteriness for the day.

Veronica hit Starbucks on her way to Mark’s neighborhood, grabbing a red-eye for Mac and an iced latte for herself. She pulled to the curb in front of a small building several blocks from the ocean and texted Mac. 

Mac emerged in yesterday’s jeans and a t-shirt that was clearly Mark’s, since it hung off of her slight frame. Her face was scrubbed clean, pale with faint circles under her eyes, and she was moving a bit gingerly. When Mac reached the car, she accepted the muffin and coffee with a moan of gratitude. “Bless you, child.” 

“How’re you feeling? Really?” Veronica asked, pulling back into traffic.

Mac chewed the bite of muffin in her mouth, holding up a hand. She swallowed, then took a hit of coffee. “Okay,” she answered, but she kept her gaze on the road. “My God, this muffin.” 

“Yeah, right? Good recipe.”

“You’re too pretty to bake so well,” Mac commented with a smirk. “Better be careful, or Logan will wife you up.”

Veronica snorted and reached for her latte. “You’ve tasted Logan’s cooking -- I might wife _him_ up.”

Mac laughed a little too hard at that. 

The courthouse wasn’t far, and Mac seemed determined to finish her muffin and coffee before they arrived. Once they’d parked and were headed inside, Mac shrugged and said, “So that was Mark.” She clearly felt awkward about the circumstances of their introduction. “I did some consulting for him. And we went on a couple date-like things.”

“And then spent the night with him,” Veronica added, suppressing a smirk.

“In his bed,” Mac corrected, flustered. “I mean -- he was on the-- shut up!”

Veronica laughed outright. “I like him. Any guy who punches abusive assholes in the face is a friend of mine.”

Mac smiled back. “Yeah. He’s… kind of great?” she said, but she still sounded uncertain. “I think.”

“He insisted you get medical care -- he’s a keeper.”

“I just hope this…” Mac trailed off, waving a hand in the air between them, “you know, scary stuff didn’t scare him off.”

Veronica wasn’t sure how to answer. Because their work wasn’t dangerous most of the time, but the problem was that it was _unpredictably_ dangerous. And she wasn’t sure whether Mac had really considered that aspect before agreeing to quit her plush job at Kane Software for a life of low-rent investigatory fun. “Berto, that stuff,” Veronica said finally, “it has nothing to do with your awesomeness. And from what I saw last night, I think Technology Guy is smart enough to figure that out.”

Mac winced. “Really? We’re still calling him that?”

“Well, _I_ am.” Veronica ushered Mac to the clerk’s office and gathered the necessary forms. She handed them to Mac with a pen, and received a baleful look in return.

Twenty minutes and one brief conversation with a judge later, one Robert “Berto” Flores, aka Berto Rodriguez, was judicially ordered to stay at least 100 feet away from Cynthia “Mac” MacKenzie for the period of two (2) weeks. They also had a court date to consider a permanent restraining order, but Veronica was hoping that wouldn’t be necessary.

“Well,” Mac said sardonically, holding a copy of the court order as they emerged from the courthouse. “I feel safer. Especially considering Berto has no idea about this.”

Veronica sighed and unlocked the car. “I know. So listen, what are your plans for the day?”

Mac climbed into the passenger seat and fixed Veronica with a strange look. “It’s Wednesday.”

“I’m… aware of that,” Veronica answered, puzzled by the non sequitur.

“So I’ll be working,” Mac added. “Because -- Wednesday.”

Veronica chewed her lip for a moment. “Would you maybe want to work from Mark’s? Or from,” she shrugged, “I don’t know, the Neptune Public Library?”

“Veronica,” Mac said, her arms crossed, her tone defiant, “I’m not going to let one… _incident_ scare me away from my job.” 

Veronica resisted the urge to offer up a fist bump. “While I admire your spirit, I need to talk to Lamb about Weevil’s shop, and I was hoping to head back up to LA to see if that woman is really Sonia Rodriguez, and--”

“Oh, you _have_ to go back,” Mac interrupted, nodding eagerly. 

“Right, okay.” Veronica glanced at her friend, then back to the road. “I didn’t want you to have to be in the office by yourself today.”

“Ah.” Mac considered that, her fingers tapping against her jeans in nervous syncopation. “What about your dad?”

“Surveillance, I think, on the Westmoreland case. In Dana Point, up near LA. Pretty much all day.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Mac pressed her palm flat against her thigh. “I guess… could you drop me back off at Mark’s?”

Veronica grinned. “Technology Guy’s it is.”

& & &

Veronica pushed through the double doors, back ramrod straight, the way it always was when she visited the damn Sheriff’s Department. “Is he in?” she asked the deputy manning the closest desk. She checked his nametag automatically.

“Who’s ‘he’?” asked Deputy Hooper

Veronica was sorely tempted to launch into _Who’s on First_ , but the collective IQ in the Sheriff’s Department hovered around 40, so she wasn’t confident he’d have the first idea what she was talking about.

“Sheriff Lamb,” she said instead, a fake bright smile in place. “I need to speak with him.”

“On what does this pertain?”

Veronica actually winced at the deputy’s mangled grammar. “I may have information on the arsonists that torched Eli Navarro’s auto shop,” she said. “I’ll just wait over here while you get the Sheriff.” 

She dropped onto the hard wooden bench, ignoring the clearly drunk man handcuffed to the other end. Folding her hands primly, she scanned the room, taking in the deputies and office workers, cataloging names. Never knew when you’d need to impersonate someone for access to information.

It took Lamb about ten minutes to strut out to meet her, one hand compulsively brushing through his _really_ unruly hair. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?” he demanded.

She took her time standing to face him, adjusting her jacket before bothering to meet his gaze. “You’re not going to invite me into your office?”

“Nah, I hear vampires can always come back if you invite them the one time,” he said, clearly proud of himself for the witticism.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” she said. “I’ve been here hundreds of times.” But why was she letting him sidetrack her? “Besides, _I’m_ comfortable with us having this discussion in public, but _you_ might not be.”

He narrowed his eyes, the scowl he always had for her deepening. “Fine,” he snapped, turning on his heel and heading to his office.

She followed and dropped uninvited into the guest chair, briefly wishing Logan were here with that terrible trucker hat to record this conversation. 

“Well?” he prompted. “Who burned down Weevil’s chop shop?”

“Oh,” she corrected brightly. “No, I’m not here to solve your case _for_ you.”

He practically sneered at her. “Hooper said--”

“That I may have information on the case,” she interrupted, her tone conspiratorial. “That’s true. But I thought we should talk about something else first.” She leaned back to wait. Because Lamb wasn’t a smart or patient man, and he would be easier to manipulate when he was angry.

“Listen, _Ms._ Mars, I don’t have time for your petty little jokes.”

“Oh, I know,” she broke in. “Important police work. Like making sure your detectives clear out of Weevil’s burnt out shop today and release it as a crime scene.”

Lamb leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “You act pretty high and mighty for someone in here arguing on behalf of a _thug_.”

“Weevil’s not the one working for a drug cartel,” she shot back sweetly. He glared at her, and she stared back, impassive. “And while I certainly have no intention of solving your cases for you, I think if you dig too hard into who, exactly, torched Weevil’s shop, you might not like what you find.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just a tip.” She shrugged. “A nudge in the right direction.”

“Yeah, and what direction is that?”

“I support a full investigation of _every_ crime. You know that much about me, don’t you Sheriff?” Veronica pushed herself to her feet and gave a theatrical wince. “I just think it’d be pretty awkward to call up those cartel guys who buy and sell you and tell them you arrested some street soldiers in their distribution department.”

Lamb glared at her, but didn’t answer.

“I mean, I would _love_ to see the responsible parties locked up in those cells back there, names listed in the paper. Could be _great_ publicity for the Sheriff’s Department, working to get gangs and drugs off the streets.”

“Are you through?” he asked, his tone curt.

“Absolutely!” Veronica beamed at Lamb, relishing the moment probably more than she should. But for _once_ , it would be nice if the corruption in the Sheriff’s Department tilted things in someone else’s favor. “I’ll tell Weevil to expect a call inviting him to begin rebuilding at his convenience.”

Veronica turned on her heel and marched out of the office, not quite able to contain the smirk on her face.

& & &

Veronica spent the better part of the afternoon sitting in her car in a parking lot across from Wentrcek Manufacturers. 

She’d arrived mid-afternoon, and perked up briefly around 3:30 when a couple women trickled out of the shop to grab something at the food truck idling a few parking lots down. The woman who might be Sonia was not among them.

Which meant that Veronica likely had a couple more hours to kill before quitting time at the factory.

It was crushingly dull. She wished that stakeouts were as quick and interesting as they seemed in the movies -- she would _kill_ for a good time-passing montage if it meant cutting to the chase. Instead, Veronica baked slowly in the sun, periodically reapplying sunscreen and chugging water to combat the heat. 

While absolutely _nothing_ of interest happened. 

Some kids rode by on bikes; a couple men wandered past; a homeless woman limped by pushing her belongings in a rusty old shopping cart. 

Veronica lifted her damp hair off of her neck and tucked it into an awkward ponytail. Lack of sleep combined with the heat pressing against her skin was making her sleepy.

She fired up her laptop, then plugged her phone into the adapter to charge, and changed modes to use it as a wireless hotspot. Once the laptop found the signal, she started to dig into Wentrcek Manufacturers. Mac had done basic research on all five shops on Veronica’s hit list, so she opened that file and read it once, then again more slowly.

Mira Reznik, née Wentrcek, opened the factory in 1997, and had operated it in the intervening years with varying degrees of success. They’d won the Eleven Jeans contract in 2008, and had been increasingly profitable since. 

Veronica eyed the gross income and profit numbers for the last few years with a heavy measure of skepticism. Interesting how a relatively small, unstable garment manufacturer managed to post increasing margins throughout the worst of the economic recession. She wondered just how many of the seamstresses on the shop floor were undocumented like Sonia. Paying artificially compressed wages to people with no recourse was a pretty simple way to keep costs down.

Mulling that over, Veronica disconnected her laptop from the wireless, then switched her phone out of hotspot mode to call her dad.

“You find Sonia?” he answered.

“Not sure yet -- still watching the paint fade on the outside of this building.” He made a disappointed noise, and she continued, “So assuming Wentrcek is staffed mostly by undocumented immigrants, is there a way you can think of to drop a tip to the IRS about Wentrcek’s illegal business practices _without_ putting the workers in jeopardy?”

“No,” her dad answered immediately. “Deportation is an easy story, a simple political victory for the law and order types.”

It was the answer she’d expected, but Veronica had hoped her father would have some novel suggestion, some way to turn the long arm of the law against the oppressors instead of the oppressed. For once.

She should know better by now. “Yeah,” she said. “Okay.”

“Any luck with Lamb?” he asked.

“If I had to guess, I think he’ll back off of Weevil’s shop. But it didn’t feel much like progress,” she answered. All in all, it hadn’t been her favorite day so far.

“Rarely does,” he answered cheerfully.

“Thanks, Dad. You’re a real ray of sunshine.” She smiled as she hung up.

Not even ten minutes later, her phone rang, and she startled. It was Weevil. “Hello?”

“Yeah, V, I don’t know what you did, but some deputies just came by the shop and took all their damn yellow tape away.”

“They did?” Veronica laughed despite the pit in her stomach. Confirmation if she even needed it that the Sheriff’s Department was a wholly owned subsidiary of drug cartels. God, what was she even supposed to do with that information? “Lamb is just… he’s _terrible_.”

“Who you telling?” Weevil asked. “Yeah, so just wanted to let you know, and say thanks.” She could hear how much it took for him to say it, and knew his gratitude was genuine.

“I’m really sorry about your shop, Weevil,” she said. “I would never have gone to Long Beach if I had any idea--”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it, V. Just maybe find some other backup next time.”

She grinned. “Deal. Hey, listen, do you have an email address?”

“I think so,” he answered, sounding puzzled now. “ _Why_?”

“My dad got the Business Development Department to issue a building permit for your rebuild. You can salvage anything usable and start demolition right now.”

“Then what?” He sounded angry again.

Veronica closed her eyes, because -- God, what now? “What do you mean?”

“Can’t rebuild without money, V. Even assuming you can work your magic on the insurance company, that check won’t cover all the costs. Or feed Valentina in the meantime. Jade’s a part-time special ed teacher -- that ain’t gonna get us very far.”

She turned that over in her mind, considered their options. It wasn’t something she could solve right away, but she would add this puzzle to her list. “You know what I think, Weevil?”

He snorted at her playful tone, but played along. “What do you think, V?”

“I think you should get a sledgehammer and take out some of your angst on the building. Go smash some concrete. Let me take a run at the insurance company.”

Weevil sounded like he was humoring her when he agreed and hung up.

Since there was _still_ no one leaving Wentrcek Manufacturers, Veronica called the Sheriff’s department to request a copy of the police report on Weevil’s shop. The obstinate deputy argued with her, but she would not be moved. She was, after all, Mr. Navarro’s attorney.

It worked, and she texted her dad to be on the lookout for the fax. (Because clearly the Sheriff’s Department was rooted solidly in the early 1990s, in terms of its procedures and technology. Couldn’t they use _some_ of their bribes and payoffs to invest in technology?)

Finally, as the sun sank low enough that the visor could no longer shade her eyes, women began to spill out of the Wentrcek shop and into the parking lot. Veronica jumped out of her car and locked it, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she crossed the street.

Most of the women headed down the block towards a bus stop, and Veronica moved quickly, searching all the faces until -- there. The tall woman in a loose grey skirt and bright blue top, her long, dark hair pulled back into a messy braid, laughing as she chatted with the women walking beside her -- there she was.

Sonia Rodriguez. Finally!

Veronica felt that satisfying _click_ as the last pieces of this particular mystery slipped into place.

She weaved through the small crowd and then stopped short, eyes widening as she got a better look at Sonia. Veronica shook herself out of her stupor and took three quick steps to close the distance. “Sonia?”

Sonia glanced over, confused but surprisingly pleasant to a perfect stranger saying her name. “Yes?”

But the only thing Veronica could think of to say was, “You’re pregnant.” 

& & &

END CHAPTER SEVEN


	8. Chapter 8

Sonia Rodriguez wasn’t exactly what Veronica expected based on Berto’s photo. In the picture she’d seemed tentative -- something about her posture, maybe, or the hesitant look on her face.

But photographs were flat and two-dimensional; in person, Sonia was _vivid_. An oversized presence that couldn’t possibly be captured by a picture.

“Do I know you?” Sonia asked, pausing to wait for a response. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence and humor, and even heavily pregnant, her movements were expansive. Something about the way she smiled, as if she knew a thousand secrets and would be delighted to share one or two with you -- it reminded Veronica of Lilly.

“No." Veronica shook herself from her thoughts, pushing down that familiar heartache she felt when reminded of Lilly. "Hi. I’m Veronica Mars,” she said. “It’s great to meet you.”

A few of Sonia’s friends had slowed their paces to keep an eye on the exchange. Sonia had the same effortless magnetism, the same gravity that Lilly’d had, and it seemed like Sonia’s friends circled her the way Veronica and Duncan and Logan had once orbited Lilly.

“It usually is,” Sonia said, softening the boastful words with that achingly familiar smile. She tilted her head quizzically. “But who are you and why am I meeting you?”

Veronica could have kicked herself for fumbling this. The surprise of Sonia’s pregnancy, plus the sudden influx of Lilly Kane memories had thrown Veronica off her game. “I know Cristina Galvez,” she said finally. “From the clinic?”

And just like that, Sonia’s expressive face shut down, the easy grace of her posture tightening somehow. “Why are you here?” she asked, her tone sharp and suspicious.

Sonia's friends edged closer, their attention caught by the sudden chill emanating from Sonia. Two of the women were clearly sisters, a striking family resemblance in nose and around the mouth; the taller of the sisters touched Sonia's arm. “Que pasa, Soñita?”

Sonia didn’t answer, instead pinning Veronica in place with the intensity of her gaze. Waiting for a response.

Veronica did not want to have this particular conversation with an audience, but she didn’t really see many options. “Cristina and I both wanted to make sure you were okay,” she answered slowly. “And to make sure you hadn’t had any unwelcome reunions.”

For a long moment, Sonia didn’t even breathe, her eyes narrowing as she processed the implications. “I haven’t seen -- no, that’s not possible.” Sonia sounded much less confident, anxiety coloring her words. “Right?”

“That’s why I’m here. That’s what I want to make sure of.” Veronica took a chance and pushed. “Can I buy you dinner? Somewhere we can talk?” 

“Sonia?” her concerned friend asked, stepping closer and looping her arm through Sonia’s. Her sister edged to Sonia's other side, offering Veronica a challenging look.

Sonia glanced at her friends, then straightened her spine, and some of that indomitable energy came back. “Estoy bien, dame un segundito.” She turned back to Veronica. “Dinner,” she agreed, “but only if you explain to me exactly what you’re doing here.”

Relieved, Veronica nodded once. “Deal.”

& & &

Never having spent any time at all in Gardena before, Veronica had no suggestions for restaurants. Sonia seemed amused, but simply waved her hand in the direction of a major street two blocks up. “I know a place. It’s not far.”

Veronica glanced at Sonia’s pregnant belly. “I have a car. I mean, so you don’t have to walk.”

“Walking’s good for you,” Sonia said.

“It is,” Veronica agreed.

“Plus it helps the swelling in my ankles.”

“Oh,” Veronica answered. Apparently her quick wit was on break.

Sonia led her to a small Vietnamese place with a faded COCA-COLA sign over the door. “Best _gà nướng sả_ in Gardena,” Sonia explained.

They sat at a small, scarred table against the far wall, facing each other over baby blue paper placemats and small water glasses that the waitress overfilled. They ordered quickly, and the waitress gave a tiny smile before disappearing into the kitchen. It was a little early for the dinner crowd, so no one else sat terribly close, allowing them at least the impression of privacy.

“Thanks for hearing me out,” Veronica began. “I realize this may sound kind of strange.”

“I’m reserving judgment,” Sonia admitted, “because I never needed to hear anything about Berto again, and yet here you are.” She smiled, but it lacked some of the wattage of her earlier smiles. Sonia straightened her small turquoise necklace, but otherwise covered her nervousness so well most people would probably never guess. 

“I understand, believe me.” Veronica reached for her water, spilling a little down the sides and onto her fingers. She wiped the liquid onto her jeans. “I’m only here to help. I want to make that really clear.”

“Why would you help me?” Sonia asked, all seriousness now. “You’re a stranger to me.”

Veronica didn’t have the best answer for that, so instead, she said, “I want to help because I know Berto.” Sonia stiffened, and Veronica touched her wrist briefly. “I’m a private investigator in Neptune, down near San Diego. He tried to hire me to find you.” She put her card on the Sonia’s placemat.

Sonia didn’t spare the card a glance. “You work for him?” All of her considerable intensity was focused on Veronica.

Veronica realized she had about three seconds to persuade Sonia not to bolt. “No, I don’t,” she answered. “I would never tell Berto where you are.”

“Why should I believe you?” Sonia demanded. She shook her head, pushing her chair back. “Why am I _talking_ to you?”

“Sonia, please -- Cristina, she helped you get away from Berto, right? Into the shelter?” Sonia paused, evaluating Veronica. “She’s the one who gave me the information I used to find you. She trusted me.”

Sonia considered that for a long moment, and her smile reappeared, tinged with sadness this time. “And you think that means I should trust you?”

“I hope you’ll give me a little time to persuade you I’m trustworthy,” Veronica answered.

Sonia regarded Veronica with some measure of skepticism, but Veronica saw the moment curiosity won out. Pulling her chair back closer to the table, Sonia asked, “Why are you here? If you’re not working for that hijo de puta, why track me down?”

Veronica winced, because this part might sting a bit. “To see if I could.”

“This is a _game_ to you?”

“No. No, Sonia, it’s anything but.” She clasped her hands together, trying to figure out how to explain in a way that didn’t sound crazy. Because from Veronica’s perspective, there was never even a question that she had to find Sonia, but now that she was describing her search _to_ Sonia, it… maybe seemed a little weird. “Berto is manipulative and violent, and I was concerned that the next person he asked to find you wouldn’t care _why_ he was looking.”

Sonia looked down at the tabletop, and Veronica forced herself to remain quiet, to let Sonia think. 

Their food arrived, and Sonia finally shook herself out of her thoughts and looked back at Veronica. “So you found me,” she said slowly, most of the vibrancy gone from her voice, “Which means the next guy will, too.” She stopped, tears shining in her eyes. “I’m giving him up, you know. The baby.” Sonia’s hand curved protectively against the swell of her belly. “To protect him. Did Cristina tell you?” Sonia swallowed, but lifted her chin defiantly. “About Berto?”

Veronica was having some trouble following Sonia’s train of thought, but since she was finally talking, Veronica told herself to listen now and piece it together later. “I talked to his ex-wife, Felicia,” she explained. “She made it pretty clear that Berto is an abusive man.”

Sonia looked down, tracing the line drawings on her placemat. “I liked it at first, the possessiveness. I thought it was jealousy. I thought it meant he loved me like crazy.” Sonia sat back. “Then he hit me, and when I left, he tracked me down. He threatened to report me,” she said. “To Immigration. Get me deported.”

“Unless you stayed with him,” Veronica surmised. She looked down at her hands and took a breath, because this wasn’t her story to be angry about. 

“I didn’t want a baby, either,” Sonia continued, vehement now. “He stole my pills, threw them away. Cristina -- the clinic offered the--” She gestured at her arm, “you know, the implant? But he warned me that he’d know. He wouldn’t _stop_ \--” She broke off, gesturing down at her belly. “And then this. It’s exactly what he wanted.”

Veronica nodded, carefully neutral.

“If he knew,” Sonia shook her head, determination clear her expressive face. “He would never let me go. I had to leave before he found out.”

“I’m glad you’re safe, Sonia,” Veronica said. “You and the baby.”

Sonia gave her a piercing look. “But you found us, so we’re not safe.”

& & &

Veronica wished the COCA-COLA Vietnamese place had a liquor license. Because she and Sonia had finished their meals, but not their conversation, and she felt awkward taking up a table just to drink tap water and talk. She would _definitely_ overtip their waitress, but she wasn’t about to cut the conversation with Sonia short.

Because Veronica still had some questions, and as long as Sonia was still willing to talk, she’d keep asking them. 

Sonia had been fairly blunt sketching outlines of the abuse she’d suffered at Berto’s hands -- emotional, physical, and sexual. She’d also catalogued for Veronica the myriad ways he’d controlled her, isolating her from anyone who could help her. Knowing more of the backstory, Veronica was even more humbled that Cristina Galvez had decided to trust her with information about Sonia. Apparently getting Sonia out and to the shelter in Sacramento, then down to LA, had been a bit of a cloak and dagger affair.

Which reminded Veronica-- “You’re still at the shelter?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I thought--” Veronica shrugged, confused. “Aren’t shelters normally temporary?”

“Yes. The emergency shelter is. It’s 45 days. That’s where I was when I came to LA.” Sonia looked down at her placemat, a fond smile on her lips. “Some of it was hard, but the women there, they’re like my sisters now.”

“That’s…” Veronica trailed off, because “great!” seemed insensitive to the reason all of those women were actually living in a domestic violence shelter. “I’m glad you had good people around you,” she said instead.

Sonia’s grin widened, amused by the way Veronica parsed her words. “You don’t have to feel awkward about it, Veronica. I know what you meant.” She shifted, grimacing a bit. "Sorry, the baby is pressing."

Veronica didn't have an appropriate response to that, so she simply said, "Mmm."

Sonia looked down at her belly for a moment, as if waiting for a response from the baby. Then she smiled. "Sorry. Yes, so the shelter -- I do have good people. A couple of the other women have become good friends."

“Okay, then.” Veronica smiled back. “That’s excellent!” 

Sonia’s laughter was bright and cheerful, and Veronica felt that flash of familiarity once more. “I’m at the transitional shelter now,” Sonia explained. “Like a group home, you know? There are nine of us right now.” Her cheerfulness dimmed. “Marsha left last week.”

With a sigh, Veronica asked, “Does that happen often?”

“Not really,” Sonia answered. “Just two of the girls since I’ve been in LA went back.” Sonia shifted in her seat, glancing at the clock near the kitchen entrance. “We don’t have a curfew or anything, but I don’t want anyone to worry.”

Dammit. Veronica told herself not to be irritated. Sonia had worked a full day, and had to be up early for another. Plus, she was eight months pregnant and probably exhausted, and she'd _still_ spent nearly an hour and half with Veronica.

Sonia watched her, knowing amusement in her eyes. “I'm sorry. I know you went to a lot of effort to find me. But as long as I'm at the shelter, I'm pretty safe.”

“No lease, no car, no paper trail,” Veronica ticked off. “It's safer than a lot of alternatives, sure.”

“The people who run the shelter – they're very good. They have systems in place to protect us. Plus,” she added, grinning widely even as she lowered her voice and leaned closer, “the advantage of working under the table is the cash-only economy.” She laughed again, and pushed herself to her feet with a quiet, “Ooof.”

Nodding slowly, Veronica slipped her bag from the back of her chair and stood, taking the check to the cashier near the door. Sonia followed more slowly, and when Veronica glanced back at her, she could see the strain and exhaustion beneath Sonia’s joie de vivre.

Veronica tucked her credit card away and joined Sonia at the door. “I kept you out later than I meant to,” she said, emerging into the cool night air. “Let me drive you back to the shelter.”

They walked in silence for a few moments while Sonia considered. “I'm in North Hollywood.”

Surprised, Veronica said, “Isn't that in the Valley?”

“I can take the bus,” Sonia demurred, “it's--”

“No, it’s fine.” Veronica touched Sonia’s arm lightly. “I just – isn't that a long commute every day?”

Sonia shrugged. “This is where the work is. I can't just fill out an application at the mall.”

“Right. Makes sense. And I'm happy to drive you. Really.”

“Thank you. That would be great.”

Veronica matched her pace to Sonia's. “So your situation right now is pretty good,” she commented. “How long can you stay at the shelter?”

A shadow flitted across Sonia's face. “Six months.” She flicked away the thought with a wave. “I'll figure it out.”

Six months. Sonia had been gone nearly that long already. That, plus her time in the emergency shelter meant she had _some_ time left to figure out her next steps -- but not that much time. Not to mention the impending birth of her child, which could coincide with the very end of Sonia’s stay at the shelter. 

If Veronica were the one facing not one but two looming deadlines, she would be knee deep in pro/con lists for each of her seventeen options. Sonia seemed to simply shrug it off. It was baffling. But part of what reminded Veronica of Lilly was Sonia's sheer presence in the moment. Lilly had certainly experienced things more fully than most people. But the tradeoff to keeping your focus firmly on the here and now was disinterest in the bigger picture, the longer term. And _that_ used to drive Veronica crazy.

So Veronica would be the voice of reason for Sonia, like she'd tried to be hundreds of times for Lilly. “You should go somewhere else,” she ventured. They reached Wentrcek Manufacturers, and Veronica indicated the Audi parked across the street. “That's me.”

Sonia just nodded, following her to the car and circling to the passenger side. She lowered herself into the seat and sighed. It must be an exhausting work week, but her options were limited by her status -- her options for work, her options for where to live.

Pulling away from the curb, Veronica glanced over and said, “We want the 105, right?”

“The 110,” Sonia corrected. “Take a right up here.”

“Thanks.”

Veronica drove in silence, searching for signs, for the freeway entrance. “Ah-ha!” she crowed, victorious, and turned onto the ramp.

Sonia laughed, and Veronica could feel the other woman's gaze on her. She glanced over with a quizzical look.

“Go somewhere else?” Sonia said. “What did you mean by that?”

Veronica passed a car, absently blaming the more aggressive, irritable parts of her driving on Logan's influence. “I don't know how to keep Berto from looking for you, but I know how you can stay out of his sight.”

“So you mean move away. Out of state?” Sonia shook her head. “I couldn't. My aunt is up in Barstow. She's the only family I have. Plus I need the community here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I rely on the my undocumented friends for help. I need to know who will hire me or I can't work. The job training at the shelter – it's great, but I can't actually put it to use.”

Veronica considered that. “But your reliance on a relatively small group of people here in California makes it much easier for you to be found. It's a smaller universe for Berto to search.”

Beside her, Sonia turned away, staring out the window without answering.

“I'm not trying to scare you, Sonia,” Veronica said, glancing over. “Would Berto ever think to look for you in Atlanta or Dallas?”

“Atlanta?” Sonia repeated, awash in skepticism. “I couldn’t go there. It’s so _far_.”

Which was the point, but Veronica didn’t think Sonia would respond well to sarcasm. So she said instead, “What about New York? Or Texas?”

Sonia shook her head. “I don’t know a soul in any of those places. How would I find work? Or a place to live?”

“What about the shelter system? Is there some kind of, I don’t know, reciprocity in place?”

“What kind of reciprocity?”

“Like a transfer -- from LA to Houston, say, Or Dallas.” Veronica thought there _should_ be something like that if there wasn’t already.

“I’m,” Sonia stopped, shrugged, “not really sure. I can ask LaKeesha -- she’s the director at our shelter.”

Veronica let the idea sit in the air, silent for a long moment. “Sonia, will you at least think about it? About going somewhere else? I know it’s a lot.”

Her mouth a tight line, Sonia gazed out the window. “I’ll think about it.”

“Great.” She knew she should leave it there, and not push, but -- that wasn’t really her nature. “Can we talk tomorrow? Once you’re out of work?”

This time, Sonia grinned. “You’re persistent, I will give you that.”

“It’s my best quality,” Veronica answered. “Just ask anyone who’s ever met me.”

With a soft laugh, Sonia agreed, “Sure, yes. We can talk tomorrow.”

“Great!” Veronica exited onto the 101, heading over into the San Fernando Valley. 

Despite gratefully agreeing to the ride home, Sonia didn’t tell Veronica where she lived, only indicating a corner and saying, “This is fine. Thanks, Veronica. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night,” Veronica answered. To respect Sonia's obvious desire for privacy, Veronica waited only until Sonia got a few yards down the sidewalk, then pulled away from the curb. But to respect her own damnable curiosity, she circled the block and spotted Sonia waiting patiently at a bus stop several storefronts down from where she’d asked to be let out. 

Veronica smiled. No wonder she’d done so well staying hidden so far -- Sonia had good instincts for subterfuge.

As soon as she accelerated onto the freeway, Veronica called her father. “Found her!” she said, in lieu of a greeting.

“Great job, kid,” he answered. “How’d it go?”

“She’s a little freaked out, but at least agreed to consider relocation.” 

“When do you see her again?” 

“Tomorrow night.” 

“Great. Listen, honey,” he said, in that tone that meant he was going to tell her something she wouldn’t like, and Veronica’s cheerfulness teetered. “I signed a lease today. You remember the place with the built-ins you liked so much?”

She hesitated only a moment, remembering Wallace’s admonishment. “That was the one on the third floor, right?” she asked, her voice bright. And if it was a little bit forced, well, she would do better once she adjusted to the idea of her dad moving back into an apartment.

“Exactly,” he answered, and she could hear his relief.

“I liked that place," she said, and it was almost completely true. "When do you move?”

“Middle of next month. You volunteering to help?”

Veronica grinned. “I’m volunteering _Logan_ to help.”

& & &

Veronica practically bounced into the condo, energized by her long conversation with Sonia. She was starting see a way out of this for Sonia, a way to get where Berto couldn’t find her. Not even the monotonous drive south on the 5 had dampened her spirits.

“Honey,” she called, “I’m home!” She heard the TV and headed for the living room. “I hope you’re wearing something sexy, ‘cause-- Mac!” Veronica stopped abruptly. “Uh, hi.”

Mac was curled against one end of the couch, her laptop balanced carefully on her knees, watching Veronica with wide eyes. “Hi,” she greeted sheepishly. 

Logan smirked at Veronica from the easy chair, a half-read book in his hands. “Cashing in that rain check already, huh?”

Veronica breezily ignored him, dropping her bag onto the coffee table and joining Mac on the couch. 

“Sorry,” Mac said, brow furrowed with concern. “Logan said it was cool if I crashed here tonight?”

“Of course!” Veronica agreed. “Any time.”

“I just didn’t want to, like, _move in_ with the guy I’ve been dating for like two weeks.” She looked uncomfortable, straightening up a bit and gesturing vaguely toward the door. “But I can go if--”

“Stop it. Of course you’re staying.” Veronica glanced at the TV and glared over at Logan. “Are you watching _Planet Earth_ without me?”

Logan shrugged, still with the smug grin, and held up his book. Veronica made a sour face at him, but he was undeterred.

“My fault,” Mac admitted. “I wanted to see the big cats.”

“But not the big cats feasting on zebra,” Logan added. 

“Yeah, that got a little traumatizing,” Mac agreed. “Can’t they just film the stuff where they’re frolicking around and being adorable?” Mac grabbed her soda from the table and took a sip. “But the background noise helps while I’m working.”

Veronica leaned closer. “Whatcha working on?”

Mac angled the laptop so Veronica could see. It was a fundraising page, with a picture of Weevil, Jade, and Valentina at the top, a press photograph of the burnt out autobody shop, and a link to a _Neptune Register_ article about the fire.

“Mac!” Veronica gave her a playful punch on the arm. “That’s awesome!”

“Yeah.” Mac tapped her fingernail against the screen. “The article mentioned that St. Mary’s was raising money for the Navarros, but it’s all old fashioned.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Cash and checks and stuff.” 

“Mac,” Logan interjected, “is leveraging the power of plastic.”

“And Facebook, Twitter -- all of that,” Mac added. “St. Mary’s already posted the link.” 

Veronica brightened. “Can I use PayPal?”

“Sure.”

Veronica reached for Mac’s laptop, glancing over at Logan. “Did you donate already?” He raised an eyebrow in response, but it was the irritable look, not the sexytimes look. Veronica paused. “What?”

Logan leaned over and grabbed his wallet from the end table. “I figured,” he said, tossing his wallet onto the couch cushion beside her, “that you’d want to decide on our donation yourself, since you know I’d only give Weevs like $50.” She didn’t miss his slight emphasis on the word “our,” but before she could speak, he tilted his head, indicating the wallet. “Donate whatever you want, but use the Visa instead.”

Veronica’s good mood soured rapidly. Clearly sensing the strange tension in the room, Mac shrank back into the couch cushions, looking back and forth between the two of them.

Veronica took a breath and told herself not to snipe. Because they’d had this argument about ten times already, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be adults about it. Probably. “That card is for _your_ account,” she said. Again.

“So,” Mac said, pushing herself carefully to her feet. “I’m gonna--” She hooked a thumb toward the hallway and the spare bedroom beyond. She circled the couch, then stopped, “Wait, sorry -- can you just bring me the laptop when you’re done fighting?”

“We’re not fighting,” Logan answered, his voice deceptively mild.

“No, here -- you can take this,” Veronica said, holding the laptop out for Mac. “Just email me the link?”

“Okay!” Mac chirped, then disappeared with her computer.

Veronica turned back to Logan, and _now_ he looked pissed. 

“It’s _our_ money,” he stated flatly. "I swear we’ve talked about this at least ten times already."

"We have," she confirmed, then paused. Because she needed to figure out the correct tack to take to avoid hurt feelings and awkward silences.

"And we came to the conclusion," Logan said, studying her with those damnable eyes of his, "that living together while keeping our money stuff entirely separate would be unnecessarily difficult."

Veronica frowned, because that wasn’t _exactly_ what they’d agreed to. "We decided on a joint account for joint expenses," she said. "But I think you’re missing the part where I don’t want you for your money.”

“And thank God for that,” he answered, and there was the sarcasm, right on cue. Veronica felt her shoulders tense, just a bit, as he continued, “But we’re trying to build a life together.” he paused, and the vulnerability on his face was like a sharp hit to her solar plexus. “Aren’t we?” he asked.

“Yes.” She sounded breathless and strange, even to her own ears. Veronica pushed herself up and moved to the end of the couch. “Yes,” she repeated, and reached for his hand. 

She felt off-balance, like she’d only just now realized she was standing on a cliff, and one false move could tip her over the edge. “We are.”

He watched her for a long moment, then exhaled, his grip on her hand tightening. Anchoring them together. “Okay,” he said, and he believed her and she could breathe again. “So why do you keep putting up all these walls -- my money, your money? Veronica, you know I don’t care about the money.”

Mac reappeared, in a tank top, shorts, and sneakers, with earbuds in. “Sorry,” she said, pointing to the door. “Gonna go run for a while.”

“You have the spare key?” Veronica asked.

Mac nodded. “I’m good."

Logan asked, "The gym downstairs, not a nighttime jog outside, right?"

"Yes, Logan, I will run on the boring stupid treadmill," Mac agreed, practically jogging to the door to escape.

Veronica turned to Logan; he was looking back at her, and she couldn't figure out what to say. 

They’d had this argument a few times before, but it had never felt so fraught with danger. He’d never asked her to explain _why_ before. She was bad at this, at sharing her feelings, but to get them back onto solid ground, she would try. “I know it hasn’t escaped your notice that our respective piles of money are _pretty_ mismatched. I can’t afford the lifestyle you can.”

Logan’s mouth tightened. “It’s a condo, Veronica, not a lifestyle.”

“You know what I mean,” she insisted. “I love it here, Logan. I love our place, but I could never afford this on my own."

"You're not," he said, sounding frustrated.

Veronica paused. "I'm not what?"

"On your own." Logan gestured at the space between them. "I mean, isn't that the point?"

She took a breath, tried to figure out how to explain. "This -- sometimes it scares me, Logan."

He looked like he was bracing himself for impact. "Us?"

"No." She gripped his hand tightly between hers, let him study her until he believed her. "Not us, not you." He exhaled shakily, and she squeezed his hand harder. "Just the money stuff. This life that I could never maintain on my own. It's -- I can barely pay my student loans every month, and a smaller place would feel less..." she searched for the right word, "oppressive in some ways, but I know you’d hate it." She stumbled to a halt.

He looked down at their hands. “Oppressive?” he repeated.

Veronica closed her eyes briefly. "It’s pressure, Logan. This," she waved a hand to encompass their condo and its million dollar view, "it’s all foreign to me. I didn’t grow up with this, or grow up _wanting_ this, necessarily. It’s the same as if we’d decided to live in a tiny apartment in _my_ income bracket -- it would be difficult for you sometimes."

“Let’s not make this like I’m the _Princess and the Pea_ ,” he countered, bitterness creeping into his tone. “You’ve seen the carrier berths, and I manage to survive at sea.” His sarcasm was there, but not vicious, and she knew he was trying to keep this from escalating, too. “There’s nothing wrong with choosing something a little nicer if you can.”

“It’s not an insult, Logan. I’m not saying you’re,” she shrugged, “spoiled or whatever. And I’m not just talking about the condo. It’s just -- you’re the one with more, so it makes sense that a lot of these decisions are--” she broke off, rephrased, feeling like she was nearing the edge of that damn cliff again. “On the big stuff, you get the deciding vote.”

His expression was stony, his hand tight around hers. “I don’t want the deciding vote,” he said, practically spitting the last two words. “Veronica, the money, the way we use it -- it’s not about…” he shrugged, exasperated. “I’m not trying to control things, or be the _decision-maker_.”

“I know,” she said; but it was only mostly true. She knew this intellectually, but she still _felt_ like his orders of magnitude _more_ money automatically gave his opinion on how to spend it more weight. Even when it was something they were doing together, like deciding where to live. 

Sometimes that felt like he was the one in control of the big stuff, by default. And not being in control of her life and her choices was something that would never really be okay with Veronica. She gave a helpless little shrug.

Logan looked down, and she knew he was trying to figure out how to get through to her. “Don’t think of it like that. We’re together.”

She nodded. Because obviously. “Right.”

“So we need to decide stuff together -- all kinds of things, like where to live, where to go on vacation, what to have for dinner. Whatever. The price tag shouldn’t matter -- if it’s about us, we decide together.”

Veronica leaned over and kissed him. Because she wanted so badly for what he said to be true. She wanted them to just be equals in this part of their relationship, too, but if wishes were horses, she'd have a goddamn pony.

When she pulled back, she said, “Okay. I understand what you’re saying about decisions. That makes sense to me. That’s logical. But I can’t get past the fact that your money is _your_ money.” She shrugged, unable to do much better than that. “I didn’t earn it.”

The edge of his mouth quirked upwards. “Like I did?”

“Well…” she paused. Because she’d never really thought about it that way. He’d been Logan Echolls of the moneyed, Hollywood Echolls since she met him. It was just… _part_ of him. “But you inherited it.”

“From a terrible man who never deserved it,” Logan pointed out. “You know that’s true.”

She nodded, looking down at their joined hands. Intellectually, she understood his point. They _were_ building a life. She was scraping to pay her student loans, and contributing to their living expenses as much as she could, but in the end, they wouldn’t have this condo without Logan’s money. She wouldn’t be driving a “pre-owned” Audi without Logan’s money for the down payment. She _wasn’t_ a 50% partner, monetarily speaking, and until the unlikely event of a stock market crash and another Great Depression, there was no way she ever could be. 

Logan was fine with it. So why did it bother her so much? Why did it feel so disempowering to be the one who couldn’t pull her own weight?

“Veronica.”

She looked up.

“No one’s keeping a ledger, you know,” he said. “This -- us--” He leaned closer, his eyes intent on hers. “We’re not about money. We’re not about who owes favors, because if we were going to tally up _that_ score, I’m pretty sure I’d owe you a hell of lot more.”

She smiled and ducked her chin. “ _Did_ get you off murder charges a couple times,” she agreed, grateful for his ability to recognize when she needed a moment to regroup, to step back from the edge of all these _feelings_. He’d always read her so well. Eerily well at times.

“Without ever accepting a dime for your troubles.” Logan lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her wrist quickly. “Listen,” he continued, keeping his tone lighter, “all money does is make things easier. It means we can live here in this building with enough security to feel safe, and not worry month to month about keeping the electricity on. I’m grateful as hell to have it, but I didn’t do anything more to earn this peace of mind than you did,” he said with a shrug. “Can we maybe just focus on that part?”

“On what part?”

He grinned. “On how we are both the beneficiaries of a level of peace of mind we haven’t necessary earned?”

Damn him for making logical arguments about this. She nodded slowly, still processing even as she favored him with an answering smile.

“Hey,” Logan said, his eyebrows quirking, “You know what I do earn?”

She just shrugged at him, intrigued by the sudden glint of amusement in his eyes.

“My O-3 level salary from the U.S. Navy.” He smirked at her. “If it’ll make you feel better, I will absolutely _not_ let you spend any of my hard-earned $70,000 per annum.” His face was alive with humor, his free hand drawing an emphatic line in the air. “I’ll even get a separate account. We can call it my walking around money.”

She snickered -- he was pretty adorable sometimes, and she was probably being unreasonable about their finances. Because -- and she couldn’t believe this was _just_ dawning on her now -- part of making a life together was making decisions together, and most of those decisions involved money. 

Veronica really didn't think this was a problem they would ever fully solve. She would never feel comfortable spending large sums of his money on herself, but she could try to think about their joint purchases as valid uses of that money. Maybe thinking about things as _their_ finances was something she needed to work on.

“Okay,” she answered slowly. “I’ll try. But I have a couple of conditions.”

Logan tossed his book onto the side table and tugged on her hand until she rose and moved to stand in front of him, in between his knees. “Yeah?” he asked, his hands landing on the back of her thighs, urging her closer. “What kind of conditions?”

“Well,” she said, bracing her hands on his shoulders for leverage as she shifted to kneel on his chair, her knees straddling his hips. “For one,” she continued, settling on his thighs, “we are getting rid of the black Amex, because it is ridiculous to have a credit card with no limit.”

”I’m not sure if that’s true, actually -- the no limit thing,” he said. 

Veronica leaned back and stared at him, incredulous. “You _don’t know_ if your ridiculous glitterati credit card has a limit?”

“You think I glitter?” He smirked, batting his eyelashes at her. “I’ve never hit a limit on it. And technically it’s a charge card -- you have to pay your entire balance each month, whether you bought a pack of gum or a yacht.”

Veronica rolled her eyes. “Oh, well, in _that_ case…”

Logan pretended to pout. “You take away all my toys,” he complained, his hands trailing down her back, and settling on her ass in a blatantly sexual manner. He squeezed, and she reached for him, trailing her fingers down his rib cage. “And?” he prompted, “the other thing?”

“Oh,” she said, tugging his shirt free of his pants. “We’re totally giving $5,000 to Weevil.”

Logan dropped his head back against the chair, but said only, "Okay."

"Really?" she pressed, working to unbuckle his belt.

Logan nodded. "Really. Do it. Except do it _later_."

She grinned. "Okay. I'm sure Weevil will appreciate the help," she said as she dipped her fingers into his waistband.

“Jesus,” Logan grimaced. “Can we please not talk about Weevil while you’re doing _that_?” And then he was groaning, “Up,” he said, pushing at her hips. “Bed. Now.”

& & &

END CHAPTER EIGHT


	9. Chapter 9

Veronica and Mac arrived at the Mars Investigations offices together the next morning, armed with coffee and the last three lemon raspberry muffins. Keith was on a call, but accepted the muffin with a blissful grin. 

Once at her desk, Veronica mimed cracking her knuckles and reached for her keyboard. “Now let’s just see what we can come up with today.”

Her dad ignored her antics finishing up his call before turning to her. “I’ve been digging a bit on options for Sonia. I think Texas is the way to go -- relatively large Salvadoran community, reasonable level of immigration services.”

Veronica considered that. Sounded promising. “Are there shelters that would help her get on her feet?”

“Theoretically,” he answered. “They don’t seem to want to get into a lot of details with a male PI calling from out of state.”

She made a face at the implication. “I guess Berto’s not the only asshole who tried to get a professional assist to find his victim.”

Keith grinned outright. “There are always more assholes in the world, honey. It’s what keeps us in business.”

“As long as we keep firing the assholes and working for the other guys,” she shot back, lifting her palms in a _what can you do_ gesture.

“Technically,” he said, tapping a pen on his desk, “we’re not working for anyone on this.”

Her amusement fled. She was just pouring more non-productive hours onto their books with this, but she just didn’t have it in her to walk away. “I know. I’m sorry, Dad. I just,” she shrugged, “can’t let this one go.”

“I understand, Veronica,” he answered, and he sounded almost apologetic when he added, “But I need to get some work done on the Westmoreland case.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Something billable.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, indicating the door with an imperious wave of her hand. “Go make us some money, kid.”

He stood, grabbing his coat jacket and shrugging it on. “I’ll be back, I don’t know, late afternoon, maybe?”

“I’m heading up to LA around 4.”

“Into the teeth of traffic,” he said, from the doorway. “Good luck.”

“Damn.” She hadn’t thought of that. She should probably leave earlier, though it probably wasn’t possible to avoid LA traffic, since LA traffic was a 24/7 affair. It was just _worse_ at certain points of the day.

Pulling her laptop closer, Veronica searched for more information on resources for undocumented immigrants. Trying to find a domestic violence shelter that would accept undocumented women, she came across a reference to the Violence Against Women Act and perked up, rereading the page more slowly. Veronica remembered VAWA from law school, but really only in the context of funding for prosecuting domestic violence, and the rape shield law -- protection for rape victims from being cross-examined about their sexual behavior. 

But this particular shelter referenced VAWA’s protections for immigrants being abused. Sonia had said Berto used her status to control her -- what if there was actually a solution for that particular problem?

Excited now, she picked up the office phone and called Gage Whitney. “Trey Rogers, please.” She waited, somewhat impatiently, for her law school study partner to pick up.

“Trey Rogers,” he said, all professionalism and charm, which made Veronica smile. He’d been pretty shy in law school, and more than a little horrified each time the Socratic method forced him to describe a case to the class. He’d been a totally different person during study sessions -- confident and gregarious. She was pleased to hear the self-confidence come through in the real world setting.

“Trey!” she greeted. “It’s Veronica!”

“Veronica,” he answered, his tone much warmer and less formal, “two times in like a week? I assume _this_ time you have a juicy case to throw my way, with a ton of billable hours.”

She laughed. “Yeah, not so much. So I’ll just have to owe you _two_ free background checks of your choosing when you think you’ve met the man of your dreams.

“Hmmph,” Trey answered. “I feel like I’m getting screwed here. You’re lucky I’m still a nice guy, despite being a Gage Whitney shark.”

“Eh, it’s only been a year -- give it time, and those rows of razor sharp teeth will make their appearance.”

He huffed a laugh. “I’ve got ten minutes to a client call, and you’re welcome to five of them. Go.”

“Thanks, Trey,” she said. “Talk to me about the immigration assistance piece of the Violence Against Women Act. I remember just enough to be dangerous, and the ICE page written for the layperson is not detailed enough.” 

“You have the strangest questions, V, you know that?”

She couldn’t decide if he admired that quality of hers, or was just humoring her. “Incurable curiosity,” she said. “You know me!”

“So our esteemed members of Congress managed to come to an agreement that abusers who hold green card or citizenship sponsorship over their victims’ heads are a special brand of shitty. VAWA allows people -- mostly women -- who are in that situation to self-petition for status changes _without_ a sponsor, assuming they meet the basic requirements.”

“Right,” Veronica nodded, scribbling notes as Trey talked. “What are the requirements?”

“Well, the abuse, obviously. I think the statutory language is something like _battery or extreme cruelty_.”

“Check,” Veronica commented darkly.

“The self-petitioner has to have good character, has to have lived with the abuser, and has to be the spouse, child, or parent of an LPR or citizen abuser. Oh, and it has to be a good faith marriage, obviously.”

Veronica deflated. “Crap.”

“The spouse part?” Trey guessed. “Yeah, us singletons get screwed again.”

“Singleton?” Veronica repeated. “Did you just reread _Bridget Jones’ Diary_?”

“Shut up.”

Her momentary amusement faded. “Yeah, so the woman I’m thinking of was a girlfriend, not wife,” she mused, searching for another possible way this immigration exception could work for Sonia. “And California doesn’t have common law marriage. Damn.” Veronica slumped back in her chair. “Being undocumented really _sucks_ ,” she observed.

“Yeah,” Trey agreed. “You wouldn’t believe the stories we hear. It’s pretty sad some days.”

“Here, too,” Veronica answered. 

“I don’t know if this makes it better or worse, but if you’re working on the same thing that you called about before, Temporary Protected Status isn’t the same as Legal Permanent Resident -- that guy couldn’t have sponsored anyone anyway.”

Veronica’s head dropped back and she stared up at the ceiling. “Nope, I think that’s just really the same amount of shitty. Sonia didn’t even know she _wasn’t_ a citizen until she was 15 and wanted to get her driver’s license. Her parents were killed in a car crash when she was 12, and her aunt had to tell her that she was born in El Salvador, and moved here before she turned one.”

Trey was silent for a moment. “Contrary to popular belief, there aren’t squadrons of ICE agents out there looking for people to deport. Tell Sonia to keep her nose clean, and if at all possible, pay taxes on her income. Shows good character if she ever ends up in the system.”

Veronica noted that, then asked, “But there’s nothing you’d advise her to do? Regarding her status, I mean.”

Trey sighed. “I’m sorry, V, but from what you’ve told me, she doesn’t have the grounds to petition for a status change. Living an undocumented life isn’t great, but it’s better than deportation to country she doesn’t remember.”

“Yeah,” Veronica said, absently drawing on her notepad. Dark, angry shapes sketched in thick lines.

“Sorry, but I need to--”

“Oh, right. Yeah, thanks, Trey.”

“No problem, Veronica. Just bring something I can bill next time, okay? I’m trying to stay on the partner track.”

She laughed. “You got it.”

After she disconnected, Veronica thought briefly about the path not taken -- sparkling high rise, office looking down on the metropolis below, inflated paycheck. But also sixty-plus hour work weeks, billable hours sliced into 6-minute increments, working to defend the haves against the have-slightly-lesses and the have-tons-more. 

The have-nots could never have made it into the building for a consult.

Veronica would’ve appreciated the salary, but the rest? She would have _hated_ it. 

“Thank God,” Veronica murmured, propping her feet up on her desk. 

& & &

With maybe an hour to kill before she wanted to head to LA, Veronica turned her attention back to Weevil’s money problems. Or, really, his insurance problems.

She pulled the stack of Weevil’s insurance papers from her bag and flipped to the flagged page. The policy documents were incredibly dry reading peppered with jargon, so she turned to the internet for help instead. Most of the information she could find about property insurers using an arson defense to avoid paying fire claims were cases where the _owner_ was suspected of being the arsonist.

And while Veronica knew Weevil didn’t torch his own shop, and was almost positive a certain violent gang from points north _did_ , the insurance company would rely on the official police report to assist in its determination.

Which could mean additional trouble -- she knew the Sheriff’s Department had released the shop, but she had no idea what conclusions were in the police report. If Deputy Asshat were as vindictive as he was corrupt, he might have decided to screw Weevil over in yet another way.

“Shit.” She grabbed her phone and texted her dad, _Police report on the fire?_

He responded pretty quickly. _On your desk._

Veronica frowned, looking down at the three neatly labeled files on the corner, her laptop, and Weevil’s insurance papers. No police report. _You sure about that?_

_On my desk?_

Grinning, she moved to his desk and rifled through the disorganized files and papers littered across the surface until she unearthed it. Her father had helpfully left a sticky note -- _Veronica, here’s the police report_ \-- without ever transferring it to her desk.

She laughed softly, wandering back to her side of the office as she skimmed the basic information up top -- date, address, property owner. The responding officer had described the scene in dry, rote words and phrases like “fully involved” and “third alarm rung,” but even so, Veronica could smell the heavy smoke, taste it on her tongue as she read.

She shuddered, turning the page to get to the _Investigation_ section. 

_Presence of empty gas cans at the scene make arson most likely possibility. However, shop is auto repair and has many flammable liquids in storage and in use. Evidence inconclusive to determine culpability of owner E. Navarro._

“Fuck.” It wasn’t a slam dunk for the insurance company, but the official stamp of suspicion had certainly been placed next to Weevil’s name. Which made _no_ sense. The investigators mentioned how little effort was made to conceal the cause of the fire -- wouldn’t the opposite be true if Weevil had tried to burn his shop down for the insurance money? She burned with anger, scanning the rest of the document.

Damn Lamb and his corrupt cronies, anyway. What possible upside could they gain from this, aside from just cruelly screwing with Weevil? Veronica knew Weevil had no alibi -- he’d been home alone, Jade and Valentina out visiting Jade’s mother when the fire started -- but she’d seen him at the scene. Weevil wasn’t nearly a good enough actor to pull off that kind of rage and despair.

Weevil hadn't done it, and it wasn’t fair for the Sheriff’s Department to leave enough intimation in the police report for an insurance carrier to avoid paying. She scanned the report again, noticing the reference to the fire investigation department. Veronica paused, considering.

Her father knew someone in the Neptune Fire Department, someone who worked investigations. Veronica hesitated, torn. She was trying really hard to play in bounds these days, but maybe the lines should be a little hazier when she was dealing with a corrupt Sheriff’s Department. 

She picked up the phone. “Deputy Hooper, please,” she said, then waited as she was transferred.

“Hooper,” he answered brusquely.

Veronica pictured his stupid face and slipped into character, brusque with a healthy dollop of impatience. “Deputy, this is Candy over at the Neptune Fire Department -- your name is on this report on the Navarro fire?” She really hoped Hooper didn’t have a lot of experience with the investigations department, because Veronica had never spoken to Candy and was flying a little blind.

“Uh, yes,” Hooper answered, believing the lie without question. “I wrote that up.”

Veronica amped up the imperiousness, wanting him on the defensive. “Then maybe you can explain to me why there’s an implication that we have any idea who torched the place?”

“Excuse me?”

Veronica’s tone grew more vicious as she continued. “ _Evidence inconclusive to determine culpability of owner E. Navarro_?” she read. “My office is responsible for those kinds of determinations. We’re the fire investigation unit. Who approved that conclusion?”

“Conclusion?” he asked, clearly having trouble following the bouncing ball.

Veronica grit her teeth. “Who in my office approved the sentence I just read to you, Deputy?”

“Uh, no one. That was based off of--”

“Change it,” she ordered. She waited, not sure this would actually work.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you have a pen?”

“Yes.”

“Here’s what I want you to do,” she continued, “you delete the sentence I read to you, and instead, you write: _Evidence inconclusive to identify suspects_. You got it?”

“Yes,” he answered, sounding resentful.

“Read it back to me,” she demanded. When he did, she said, “Good thanks. I want you to update it right now, file the updated report, and resubmit it to me. Write down my fax number.” Veronica rattled off the Mars Investigations fax number.

Twenty minutes later, the fax machine picked up and sang its screeching song. Veronica popped up and crossed to it, waiting impatiently as page one, and then finally page two slowly rolled free. She scanned down and grinned. He’d done it.

Veronica may have done a slight dance of joy as she moved back to her desk, scanning the slightly blurry fax pages while she looked up the claims line for Weevil’s insurance carrier. 

She dialed, and navigated the automated menu with some impatience until she reached an actual human being.

“Hello, Sandra. I’d like to speak to someone about the insurance claim submitted by my client, Eli Navarro. Who would be able to help me with that?”

& & &

The drive to LA was long and sluggish and littered with nonsensical traffic slowdowns and jams. So basically the typical drive up the 5.

Still, Veronica got to Wentrcek Manufacturers well before Sonia’s shift was over. She parked in almost the same space as the day before and walked down to the cafe she’d noticed a block away from the COCA-COLA Vietnamese place. 

Patience wasn’t Veronica’s strong suit, so she figured adding a jolt of caffeine was obviously the right move. 

The cafe was a small, independent affair -- brightly painted walls, exposed brick behind the counter, and filled with the delightful aroma of coffee. Veronica ordered a cappuccino, and walked carefully to a free table so as not to lose any of the foam over the sides of her mug.

Letting her drink cool a bit, she pulled out her folder full of notes and research. She’d prepared a list of arguments in favor of Sonia moving to another city, and figured she’d be able to make a strong case. But she didn’t know Sonia well enough to predict how she’d react, or what decision she’d ultimately make.

Veronica sipped her coffee and tried to just chill. Just sit and be here in the moment, staring at really terrible local artwork on the walls, and just -- nope. Her leg jumped up and down and she drummed her fingernails on the tabletop.

Her phone rang, and she nearly cheered. A distraction. Perfect.

But when she fished it out of her bag, Logan’s smug smirk was staring back at her from the display and Veronica frowned at the phone. Not because she didn’t want to hear from Logan, but because he knew she was in LA to meet with Sonia. He wouldn’t interrupt unless it was important.

And by “important,” she and her optimistic nature of course assumed “awful.” 

She clicked accept, her palm pressed flat against the smooth wood tabletop. “Logan?”

“Everything’s fine,” he said without preamble, so of course she started to panic. “Every _one_ is fine.”

“You’re scaring the shit out of me,” she answered, her tone sharp. A young guy in skinny jeans and an ironic _Cagney & Lacey_  t-shirt gave her an irritable look, and Veronica stared stonily back at him.

“Veronica.” Logan sounded a little frustrated. “Listen to what I’m saying. Everything’s fine, okay?”

“Okay.” But she didn’t believe him. Not fully. Something happened. “So what’s up?”

“I wasn’t sure if Mac wanted to stay over again tonight, so I swung by the office on my way home. Figured she might be there still.”

“Oh, God.”

“ _Veronica._ ”

“Okay. Sorry,” she apologized, turning her mug in circles in its saucer, just for something to do with herself. “So…?”

“The lights were on, so I went in, but Mac wasn’t there.”

She grit her teeth. “Are you trying to make me crazy right now? Who was it?”

“I’m not sure,” he answered slowly. “But best guess? Berto.”

“ _Berto_?” Her mind was racing, suddenly, trying to piece this together. Was he after Mac again? Or her? “Logan, what happened?”

“Sadly, nothing,” he said, and she could hear his anger now. “Guy nearly knocked me over coming out of the building, but I didn’t realize anything was wrong until I got upstairs. I assume that was Berto. Or maybe some _other_ random guy who had reason to try to burglarize your office.”

“Berto didn’t have reason,” she corrected automatically, mentally cataloging all the research they’d done, all the notes she’d taken. She didn’t _think_ she’d left anything related to Sonia in the office. In fact, it was all in a folder in her bag. Veronica compulsively reached down to confirm the bag was still dangling from the back of her chair. 

“Yeah, well, I don’t ascribe keen logic and reasoning abilities to abusive assholes,” Logan answered. “Generally speaking.”

“So he trashed the office?” she said, a little too loud, and gave Ironic T-shirt Guy a _what of it_ gesture.

“No,” Logan answered quickly, “not trashed. Maybe… rifled through much of it? But the door needs to be fixed. I’m waiting for a locksmith.”

“I really didn’t think he’d escalate like this,” Veronica said, lost a bit in her own thoughts. “Did he really think we’d have a map in the office with directions and a big _X_ to mark where Sonia is?” she asked viciously. 

“Who knows,” Logan answered.

“Logan, can you -- is there anything on Mac’s desk?”

She heard him moving, faint footsteps. “Other than her MIT-quality monitors?”

“So no paper, no notes?”

Logan laughed. “I don’t think Mac deigns to use pen and paper very often, so it’s clear.”

“Good.” Veronica refocused on him. “Wait, Logan -- is anyone there with you?”

He didn’t answer right away, and when he did, he was clearly amused by her concern. “Not at the moment. But I’m a big boy.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Yes, and your dad.”

She tried not to be angry about that, but-- “You called my dad first?”

“I had a feeling that would be a much shorter conversation,” he said, sarcasm underlying his words. “Can’t imagine what gave me the idea that you would have about fifteen follow up questions. Also, he’s able to get here a bit quicker than you at the moment.”

Damn him, but he had a point. “Oh,” she said. Succinctly.

She could hear his smile when he said, “Yeah. So why don’t I text you when I know more, and you can call when you’re heading back?”

Veronica weighed her options, particularly in light of Berto’s activities. She definitely wanted to be home with Logan, and probably with Mac. “Sounds good.”

& & &

As Veronica walked back to meet up with Sonia, she was still a little thrown. Why would Berto break into their office? What could he possibly hope to gain that was worth a burglary charge? She was a little concerned that Berto’s propensity for criminal behavior needed reevaluation. Or perhaps she’d just been crediting him with more rationality than he actually had. Irrational, violent, and possessive was a pretty scary mix. Veronica was more determined than ever to get Sonia out of LA, and as far away from Berto as possible.

Veronica rounded the corner and headed for the Wentrcek parking lot just as the workers began to spill out of the building and across the small parking lot. She stopped and waited, leaning against the rusting old chain link fence that ringed the property. Some of the women nodded at her, a few offered small smiles, but most slipped past without paying her much attention at all.

When Sonia spotted her, she waved cheerfully. Sonia’s friends seemed less enthused, particularly the two sisters Veronica remembered from the day before, who trailed behind Sonia with well-matched expressions of skepticism. 

Veronica wondered how many of the other seamstresses were undocumented like Sonia, and whether their protectiveness stemmed from a lifetime of avoiding attention from strangers.

“Hey, Sonia,” Veronica greeted, a little surprised when Sonia didn’t stop at arm’s length, but instead gave her a quick, tight hug.

“Quien es?” the taller sister asked, brushing her hair impatiently back off of her forehead. She seemed like the most confrontational of the group, watching Veronica with haughty disapproval.

Sonia grinned that familiar, knowing grin. “No es obvio??” She slung an arm around Veronica’s shoulder, further emphasizing their difference in stature. “Es mi hermana.”

Veronica recognized the word “sister” and chuckled, but none of Sonia’s friends seemed to think it was very funny. Sonia was unperturbed, simply adding, “No se preocupen. Las veo mañana.” before following Veronica to her car. As she slid into the seat, Sonia grinned and said, “They’re just jealous that I don’t have to take the bus.”

Veronica flashed a smile, then started the car and pulled into traffic. Sonia sat in the passenger side, practically radiating warm cheerfulness -- her incandescent mood offering no hint that she may have been thinking about uprooting her life. Which made Veronica start to doubt whether Sonia had considered it at all.

“Have you thought about what we talked about yesterday?” Veronica ventured, schooling her tone to one of polite inquiry instead of mild accusation.

Sonia lifted her hand, pointing to the freeway onramp. “Let’s talk at dinner about all of that. LaKeesha is joining us.”

“Okay,” Veronica agreed, curious now. “She’s the director at the shelter?”

“Full-time staffer, yes,” Sonia answered. “She lives there, too. At the transitional shelter.”

Interesting. Veronica decided she was probably happy someone from the shelter cared enough to take this seriously. Depending on what actually happened at dinner, of course. She was looking forward to meeting LaKeesha.

The forty minutes it took for them to get to the small Cuban restaurant in the Valley passed with surprisingly comfortable conversation. Nothing heavy, just two woman trading inconsequential stories. And then they were in Van Nuys, and Veronica focused on finding a parking spot.

When they reached the restaurant, LaKeesha was there -- a tall, black woman with long dreads pulled into a low ponytail at her neck. She was waiting in the tiny entranceway, and the natural set of her mouth made her look mildly irritable. Veronica remembered an article Mac sent her about _Resting Bitch Face_ , and sure enough, LaKeesha’s countenance brightened considerably as she hugged Sonia, and then turned to offer her hand to Veronica. 

“So great to meet you,” Veronica said. 

“You, too.” LaKeesha signaled the hostess, who brought them to a small table and distributed menus. 

“So,” LaKeesha began, her tone very carefully neutral. “You found Sonia.” 

Pinned by LaKeesha’s incisive gaze, Veronica had the feeling that LaKeesha missed very little. She nodded, feeling a little bad about admitting that to the person who was responsible in some way for keeping Sonia hidden. “Yes, but I’m a private investigator,” she said by way of explanation.

“I know, I checked your license,” LaKeesha answered. “You’re also an attorney?”

“I am,” Veronica confirmed, impressed by LaKeesha’s thoroughness.

“So you’re familiar with the law protecting the confidentiality of domestic violence shelters, including their locations and residents?”

Veronica folded her hands on the table, suddenly curious if this was what it felt like to be on the other side of one of her own interrogations. “I am. I should point out that I don’t actually know where this shelter -- or any of your shelters -- are. Even if I did, I would never disclose their locations.” 

LaKeesha nodded. “Excellent. Then you wouldn’t mind signing a confidentiality agreement?” It was a question only in a limited technical sense -- Veronica knew LaKeesha would leave and take Sonia with her if Veronica didn’t agree to these prerequisites.

Blunt, no-nonsense, and quick on her feet -- Veronica was a fan of LaKeesha’s already. 

“Of course,” Veronica answered, accepting the proffered contract. “I just need a minute to review the terms.”

“Of course,” LaKeesha echoed, and her smile was one of genuine amusement now. Veronica was pretty sure they understood each other. LaKeesha flagged down the waiter. “Stella Artois for me. Sonia?”

Sonia ordered a Sprite and looked to Veronica.

“Oh, a Stella for me, too.” Veronica turned her attention back to the non-disclosure agreement, scanning the boilerplate clauses while Sonia and LaKeesha chatted. Veronica pulled a pen from her bag, signed the NDA, and handed it back to LaKeesha. “Could you send me a copy for my files?” she asked, sweet as sugar.

LaKeesha grinned. “No problem.” She glanced at Sonia, then focused on Veronica once more. “So tell me about your interactions with Berto.”

Veronica recounted her interactions with him, pausing briefly when their drinks arrived, and again to order dinner. LaKeesha took notes in a small notebook, interjecting the occasional question.

“And tonight,” Veronica said, drawing her recap to a close, “we think he broke into our offices. My father will confirm once he checks the -- actually,” Veronica held up a finger, using her free hand to fish her phone out of her bag. She had three new texts, all from Logan.

_It was Berto. Security footage._

_That fucker bumped into me -- I should have grabbed him._

_Your dad is pretty pissed._

Quickly, she typed, _Thanks for confirmation. Will call soon._ Then Veronica laid the phone face down on the table and nodded. “It was Berto.” 

LaKeesha didn’t look all that shocked, but tension was clearly radiating from Sonia. “Why now?” she demanded, angry tears brimming in her eyes. “I’ve been gone six months -- why can’t he just _let me go_?”

It was frustration talking, and Veronica had no answer. She looked to LaKeesha, who gently touched Sonia’s arm and said, “We talked about this.”

Sonia’s mouth was set in a grim line, and shifted uncomfortably, rubbing her swollen belly. “I know. But it’s not fair to make me uproot my life -- _again_ \-- because he thinks of me as his…” Her lip curled with distaste, “ _possession_.”

Veronica knew she shouldn’t have been surprised to see how deeply this was affecting Sonia. The light, happy, cheerful Sonia she’d met was making the best of her circumstances, aided by her genuine optimism and enthusiasm. But at the end of the day, her circumstances were pretty damn depressing. 

Alone, pregnant, uprooted, and being hunted by a violent man. 

“It’s not fair at all,” LaKeesha agreed. “None of this is fair, Sonia, but I’d rather have you angry and _safe_ than the opposite.”

The waiter arrived with their food, and the three women fell silent. Once he left, the silence lingered, and Veronica wondered how the conversation that LaKeesha mentioned had gone. Because Sonia sounded like she was still resisting the idea of moving. LaKeesha wasn’t overtly pushing for a move, but she seemed to have come to the same conclusion as Veronica: It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, but it would be _safer_ for Sonia to move.

Veronica took a bite of her shredded pork, hummed in pleasure, and then followed it with a sip of beer. “Sonia,” she said, “basically everything about this sucks. I get it -- it’s completely not fair that Berto’s actions are dictating things. There’s a warrant out for his arrest for B&E, possibly burglary, and for the assault on my associate. He may do some time, but I’m not confident he’ll get past his obsession with you.”

Sonia simply nodded.

“He moved down to the San Diego area from Ceres to find you,” Veronica added, “because he remembered your aunt living in Long Beach.”

“She doesn’t live there anymore,” Sonia said quietly. She pushed her rice into a pile. 

“I know,” Veronica answered. “But it’s been six months since you left and he’s still _initiating_ searches for you.” She shrugged, not wanting to push too hard, but Sonia needed to really understand the situation. “He’s closer to finding you than he has been since you left.”

Sonia put her utensils down, her gaze fixed on her plate.

LaKeesha ate quietly, looking back and forth between Veronica and Sonia, seemingly content to hear Veronica’s arguments on the matter.

Veronica drank her beer, letting the silence stand to see if Sonia would engage, but she remained quiet. “You could get a restraining order,” Veronica said, “but then there would be some record of your presence here -- both in terms of Berto knowing you’re in California, and the government learning that you exist.”

“Technically, the immigration status of someone who reports a crime is of no interest to the police,” LaKeesha commented.

Looking up briefly, Sonia managed a half-hearted smile in response. “ _Technically_ , sure.”

“I’m just saying that you have options, and it’s your decision to make.” Veronica turned back to her food. 

“Pretty shitty options," Sonia said. She picked up her fork, but just pushed her food around on her plate. “I’m just--” She dropped the fork, and the metal clattered loudly on the plate. “I’m _so angry_ that he’s the one doing things wrong, and I’m the one paying the price.” 

LaKeesha reached over, rubbing small circles on Sonia’s shoulder. “I know.”

“I already dropped everything and moved once, and it was hard. But I have these friends, now, these people who understand and help me out. And now I have to leave again?” she demanded, anguished. “I have to go live somewhere else, where I know _no one_ , while he can stay here.”

Sonia paused, and Veronica wanted to respond, to offer some comfort or a bright side, but Sonia was right about all of it. 

“I can’t talk to my friends anymore,” Sonia murmured, less angry now and more despondent. “I can’t tell my aunt where I am, because he might find her, too.”

“Can’t she go with you?” Veronica asked.

LaKeesha shook her head quickly. “There’s a possibility that we can relocate Sonia within the shelter system. There’s nothing formal, but shelters in other states will work together when the threat is high enough to justify it.”

And Veronica understood her part in this now, why LaKeesha had come to dinner and asked her to sign legal documents. “I can provide an affidavit, or call the other shelter system to relay what I know,” she offered immediately. “Whatever you need.” 

LaKeesha nodded.

“I haven’t agreed to go yet,” Sonia pointed out.

“There’s a large Salvadoran community in Houston,” LaKeesha said. “I can’t advise you to break the law, but I am confident you would be able to find opportunities there.”

And by _opportunities_ , LaKeesha of course meant jobs that pay under the table.

“As a sworn member of the bar, I can’t _recommend_ that you use false identification to defraud the government or anyone else,” Veronica added, the edge of her mouth quirking upwards. “However, I may know someone who can help you with some documents that would work on laypeople. Make things a little easier.”

Sonia looked back and forth between them, then glanced down, one hand pressed to her belly. “And him? What happens to the baby?”

“Whatever you decide,” LaKeesha answered. “Nothing about that changes if you move. You can keep him, or you can give him up. The shelter in Houston is aware of your situation, and has good relationship with the state system, as well as some private adoption agencies.”

Sonia nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “Okay.” She sniffled, swiped a hand across her cheek. “I don’t ever want Berto to hurt him.”

LaKeesha nodded. “We don’t ever want Burto to hurt him _or you_.”

The sound of silverware on ceramic and the buzz of other people’s conversation seemed suddenly loud, as Veronica and LaKeesha quietly watched Sonia. Waiting for a decision.

“Okay,” Sonia said finally. She looked at Veronica, then turned to LaKeesha. “I’ll go.”

Veronica resisted the sudden, wholly inappropriate urge to fist bump LaKeesha, but when she met the other woman’s glance, LaKeesha lifted her beer bottle. Veronica clinked the necks of their bottles together, then tapped hers on Sonia’s soda glass. “Congratulations, Sonia.”

Sonia smiled, but it was hollow and forced, not the charismatic, knowing smile that had so reminded Veronica of Lilly Kane. “Thanks,” she answered, and took a sip of soda.

The rest of their meal passed with vaguely uncomfortable conversation about Sonia’s move, with LaKeesha and Veronica trying to draw Sonia out of her funk. It didn’t work.

When they stood to leave, LaKeesha offered Veronica her card. “I’ll let you know when we figure out timing,” she promised.

Veronica nodded gratefully. “Thanks.” She turned to Sonia with a smile. “I’d like to come say goodbye, if that’s okay with you?”

“Sure,” Sonia said, and her smile was genuine, if a little wobbly. “I’d like that.”

& & &

Veronica got back to Neptune just before 10:30, and couldn't stop herself from driving straight to the office. She had to see it herself. Before she got out of the car, she texted Logan quickly. _Stopped at the office for a second. Home soon._

She dropped her phone back into her bag, wincing when it clinked against something metallic. “Hope that wasn't the screen,” she muttered, shifting the keys in her hand to locate the right one.

The outer door was unharmed, but when she reached the top of the staircase, she was confronted by a shiny new doorknob attached to the familiar Mars Investigations office door. “Huh.” she said. Now that she was standing here staring at it, she remembered that Logan had mentioned waiting for a locksmith. “Dammit.”

She heard the muffled buzz of her phone and leaned against the wall beside the door to fish it out of her bag. A text from Logan. _Are you enjoying your viewing of the new doorknob? I chose rubbed bronze to class up the joint._

She snorted. _Didn't think this through. Coming home now._

_Saved you some pizza._

Good man. She headed back to the car, pausing for just a second before she pushed the building door open. Which was dumb, because no one was in the building, and no one was lurking on the street. Telling herself to get a grip, she slipped back into the car, tossing her bag onto the passenger seat.

It was a pretty short drive. The Mars Investigations office was in the tumbledown, formerly industrial part of the city, just east of downtown and not far from actual, non-metaphorical train tracks, while The Pinnacle rose like a shiny beacon of wealth and luxury on the west side. Ten minutes later, she was pulling onto the side street, fumbling a bit for the garage sensor to open the gates. She paused in the driveway, waiting for the garage gate to roll all the way up before driving inside.

She was partway down the ramp to the parking level, the gate rolling down to close behind her, when something caught her attention. Something unusual in the rearview mirror. Motion, or maybe a shape right at the edge of the garage opening as the gate cranked downwards.

A tall shape. Maybe a man-sized shape.

Veronica's pulse jumped, and her imagination helpfully supplied a nightmarish image of Aaron Echolls' creepy face in her rearview mirror. She blinked that away, stopping the car and turning in her seat to look back. She couldn't stop herself from checking the back seat, just in case.

It was empty, like she knew it would be. 

She looked out the back window, willing her eyes to adjust to the grey walls and relatively dim fluorescent lights, to locate whatever or whoever she'd seen. It was no use -- the garage door was effectively a large grate, and there was enough ambient light from the streetlights outside to make the shadowy corners inside the garage seem even darker in comparison. 

There wasn’t enough room on the ramp for a three-point turn, and she really didn't want to back up for a closer look.

Veronica reached for her bag, keeping her gaze on the garage door, alert for any discernible movement in her peripheral vision. She brought her phone up where she could spare quick glances without missing it if something _were_ to move. She selected recent calls, then Logan's name, and hit send.

“Yes,” he answered, amused, “there is fully _half_ of the pizza left for you. You don't need to--”

“Logan.”

“What's wrong?” His teasing tone was gone.

She knew it was going to sound silly when she said it out loud. “I think there might be someone in the parking garage. I think someone snuck in behind my car.”

“Lock your doors,” he ordered, and she heard frantic movement on the other end of the phone. “I'm coming down.”

She should refuse, handle it herself. Instead, she said, “Okay.”

“Don't hang up.”

Her body was starting to protest her strange position, one foot firm on the brake, and her torso twisted as far as possible to see out the back window. “Logan--”

“ _Veronica_.”

She dropped back into the car seat, just long enough to put the car in park. When she twisted back around she saw Berto, forty yards away and walking casually down the middle of the ramp toward her car. Like it was perfectly normal for him to have snuck into her fucking parking garage.

“It's Berto.”

Logan cursed. “I'm calling 911. Don't get out of the car.”

He disconnected before she could respond, but staying in the car was absolutely not an option -- she already felt trapped in the garage. She could drive down to the lower levels, or try to back up past him and leave, but more than anything else, she needed to keep him in one place until the deputies arrived to arrest him. 

This asshole needed badly to be in jail, and that was more important than the adrenaline and fear that was making her legs shake.

“Fuck,” she muttered, the decision already made. Veronica dug in her bag, closed her shaking hand around the butt of her tiny handgun, and pushed open the car door.

Twenty-five yards away, Berto slowed his progress, watching her curiously. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Veronica said, holding the gun flush against her thigh. She was pretty proud of the way her voice _wasn't_ all high-pitched and thready. She had a feeling a guy like Berto would get off on it if he knew she was scared. She lifted her chin. “I didn't think we were neighbors, but maybe I was mistaken?”

“I just want to know where Sonia is,” he said. He was angry and demanding suddenly. Veronica could see the same simmering malevolence she'd glimpsed when he lost his temper with her and her father. “That's all. You tell me, I leave.”

“So were you _aiming_ for the cliché when you decided to stalk me into a _parking garage_?” she demanded, trying to keep him off balance, off topic. And the hell away from her. “You watch a lot of Lifetime movies?”

He took a step closer, then another, and Veronica had to convince herself not to move, not to give ground. He traded in intimidation, and she was pretty much terrified, but she would be damned if she’d give him the satisfaction of knowing it.

“ _Where_ is Sonia? I know you're still looking -- did you find her?”

Veronica tsk-tsk'd. “I wouldn't get much closer if I were you.” She shifted, moving her arm away from her body and letting the gun catch his attention. She kept it pointed at the ground -- a warning more than a threat. Because she really didn’t want to escalate in case he had a weapon, too. She’d been on the wrong end of a gun before, and it had scared the shit out of her. She wasn’t confident her sessions at the shooting range aiming at paper targets had appropriately prepared her for an armed standoff. “I love Mac, but we don't need matching bruises.”

Berto made a frustrated noise. “Just fucking _tell me_ where she is.”

Veronica narrowed her eyes at him, scared and furious all at once. “You couldn't beat it out of me even if I knew. You're a coward.” She bit back more words, more accusations, because provoking him to violence was probably the last thing she should do.

“I just want her back,” Berto said, trying to project remorse, as if she could possibly misread the threatening nature of his actions and feel pity for him. “I love Sonia. I miss her so much, Veronica. You have to understand.”

“Nope,” she said. “I'll never understand guys like you.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Wouldn't even want to try.”

And then he was moving toward her, his hands curled into fists at his sides. “Tell me, goddamnit. _Tell me where she is_.”

Veronica took three quick steps backwards and brought the gun up, level with his chest. “No,” she said, cold and certain.

Berto stopped short, his hands lifting out to the sides, palms towards her. His gaze flicked between her face and the gun, and she knew he was trying to figure out if she would pull the trigger.

She was trying to figure out if she _could_ pull the trigger, her father’s words ringing her head. _Veronica, if this really is what you want, you have to take responsibility for your safety._

Veronica brought her free hand up to steady her aim, automatically shifting into the stance she’d learned at the gun range. If _she_ wasn’t wholly convinced she could shoot him yet, Berto seemed to be, as he stepped back, his hands lifting farther away from his body.

A door slammed open somewhere behind her. “ _Veronica_!”

Logan. 

She heard his footsteps, running up the ramp behind her; heard his harsh breathing. She couldn’t turn, couldn’t take her eyes off of Berto.

Berto looked past her, and Veronica could _see_ him calculating his next play. And then suddenly he was all nervous victim. “Hey, man,” he said to Logan, panic on his face, “can you help me out?”

Veronica didn't take her eyes off of Berto, but felt Logan just behind her, breathing hard, each exhale blowing her hair against her neck. He touched the small of her back reassuringly and asked, his tone caustic, “Help you?”

Berto gave an exaggerated look at the gun, then turned his attention back to Logan. “She's got a _gun_.”

“Ah,” Veronica said, “the _bitches be crazy_ appeal. Very original.”

Berto ignored her.

Faintly, far away, sirens. Veronica tilted her head.

Logan dropped his hand from her and moved to her side. She could tell from the way he was standing, the coiled energy, that he would be perfectly willing to restrain Berto by force, and if Berto happened to get a couple broken ribs, maybe a broken nose in the process, so be it.

It would be _really_ satisfying.

But Veronica didn't trust Berto at all, couldn't be sure he didn't have a knife on him. So she just wanted everyone to stay exactly where they were until the cops arrived.

Logan edged further, and she could tell he was planning to place himself between her and Berto. Which would be kind of sweet, except that she was the one who was _armed_. “Logan,” she said. When he glanced over at her, she waggled the gun slightly. 

“Oh,” he said, easing back to stand shoulder to shoulder with her instead. “Right.”

Berto must have heard the sirens, because he looked over his shoulder, and then took a step backward. He scanned the garage, assessing options.

Beside her, Logan huffed a laugh. “He's trapped,” he said, low enough that only Veronica could hear. He was right -- the garage gate required a sensor like the one currently sitting on the console in Veronica's car. So did the elevators and the door to the stairwell Logan had run down. There was probably an emergency override, but Veronica didn’t know where that would be, and she felt pretty confident Berto couldn’t find it before the cops arrived.

Veronica felt a little bit of her panic ease, and she lowered the gun back to her side, arms shaking slightly with the strain. The sirens were loud enough now that there was no doubt they were responding to The Pinnacle. 

Berto started moving, running to the garage entrance.

Police cars were drawing close enough that the light outside on the street pulsated with faint blue, getting stronger. Logan drifted away from her, but she barely noticed, watching Berto wrap his hands around the grates and rattle the gate in its frame.

It was a high-end, industrial grate, and didn't do much more than make a lot of noise.

Berto yelled in frustration and turned back toward them, backlit now by flashing blue lights.

“Uh, uh, uh,” Veronica warned, lifting the gun again, aimed in the vicinity of his kneecap. “You're good where you are.”

A police car appeared in the driveway, and Veronica squinted against the excessively bright strobes and shifted her grip on the gun, slowly leaning down to place it on the cement ramp. She still didn’t trust the deputies not to shoot first and ask questions later.

A deputy jumped out of the car, gun in hand. “Sheriff's Department,” he announced, and Veronica recognized Norris Clayton's voice. _Thank God there's at least one competent cop here_ , she thought.

Berto froze, halfway between the garage door and Veronica and Logan. He glared at her, bitter anger clear on his face, and slowly lifted his hands over his head.

“Norris,” Veronica called, “this man is Roberto Flores, who assaulted Mac and broke into our offices.”

“And stalked Veronica,” Logan added, his palm landing on the middle of her back and easing down her spine.

She nodded. “There’s a warrant out for his arrest.”

Another deputy appeared, joining Norris on the other side of the grated garage door. They instructed Berto to stay right where he was, to kneel down and lock his hands behind his head. Then Norris shouted, “Veronica, can you--?”

The garage door started its ascent, and the deputies swarmed in to take Berto into custody.

Beside her, Logan blew imaginary smoke off of the garage sensor, twirled it a couple times around his finger by its keychain, and then mimed holstering it in his jeans pocket. It was so perfectly _Logan_ , that it made her eyes sting.

He was already reaching for her, and she wrapped her arms around his ribs, crushing him as close as she could. 

& & &

END CHAPTER NINE


	10. Chapter 10

Veronica wasn't entirely sure what woke her.

Their bedroom was warm and glowing with that soft early morning light, meaning it was at least an hour too early for Logan's alarm clock. Sunshine filtering in around the edges of the blinds slanted across the foot of their bed, creating pale grey stripes in their comforter.

Beside her, Logan shifted, mumbling something incomprehensible into his pillow. Veronica rolled to her side, facing him and letting her gaze skim his features -- his forehead smooth in sleep, his eyelashes resting against his cheeks, his lips slack.

And then her mind oh-so-helpfully supplied the stark image of Logan in his Navy best, saluting a flag-covered casket. Her chest constricted with a sudden hit of grief for Gonzo, and of guilt that she was so _grateful_ Logan was here with her, in their home; here in their bed, the sheet draped along his ribs, moving ever-so-slightly as he breathed.

She reached up and wiped her cheek, frustrated. When was her emotional stability supposed to reassert itself, anyway? It'd been more than a week since her panicked hour of not knowing whether Logan was dead or alive; she should be over it.

She refused to give the confrontation with Berto -- to give _Berto_ \-- the power to throw her so far off of her game. He was in jail. And she and Logan had worked off the remnants of their panic last night, after giving terse police statements and calling her dad and Mac, respectively, with the Cliff Notes version of what happened. 

She'd fallen asleep with Logan curled protectively around her, but sometime in the deep darkness, she'd startled awake -- Berto and Aaron and Beaver, all jumbled into some half-remembered nightmare -- and had roused Logan with her strangled gasp. He'd made her come twice, his own particular brand of comfort, and then watched over her until she fell asleep.

She realized she was absently staring at his hand, curled against the sheet between them. He was so expressive with his hands, and so fucking talented, too. She grinned, her cheek shifting against the pillow.

"Hey." Logan's voice was rough with sleep.

Veronica tucked the corner of her pillow underneath her arm and met his gaze. "Hey. Sorry, did I wake you?"

He gave her a lopsided grin and ran a playful hand down the center of his chest, pushing the sheet dangerously low. "Ogle away."

She snorted. "As if."

Logan reached out, smoothing her hair back, tucking it behind her ear. "You okay?" Gentle fingers drifted along her jaw, then her neck.

"Yeah," she said, trailing a finger along his collarbone, then up over his shoulder. "You?"

He smiled, but she could see the strain in his face. Lingering fear for her, but it was more than that -- he was still processing Gonzo’s loss. "Yeah," he said.

She shifted, kissing him slowly. His arms came around her, easing her closer. He was frisky most mornings, but today was different. The way he was watching her, the way his hands clutched her closer -- Veronica could tell he wanted connection, needed her touch.

She rolled back, bringing him with her, urging him closer, her palms smoothing down his spine, splaying across his rib cage. Logan settled over her, caressing and stroking and bringing her along with loving touches and kisses until she was ready. He sank into her and stopped, his forearms flat against the bed on either side of her, and stared down at her.

His beautiful brown eyes were full, and he murmured, "Love you." And then he began to move, slow and torturous, his gaze attentively on her face. In college, this used to scare her -- his intensity, his devotion. But she was older and wiser and more sure of herself, so she gazed right back, cataloging all the ways pleasure showed on his face -- a slight widening of his eyes, the way his jaw dropped open on a harsh inhale. 

She shifted her legs higher on his hips, tightened her hands against his ribs, feeling his muscles clench and release under her palms. They moved together, faster and faster, until he shifted and reached between them and brought her over the edge. Logan followed her with a groan, then dropped his forehead to the pillow beside her ear.

His weight was warm and heavy and made breathing a little difficult, but she didn't want him to move quite yet. Possibly ever. And Logan seemed to agree, as he didn't budge for a long while, as she skimmed designs on his back with her fingernails.

Finally, he sighed. "I have to go to work."

Veronica groaned when he pulled away from her and flipped his alarm off, since he was already up. He pushed himself upright and scrubbed a hand through his hair. Moving towards the edge of the bed, he paused and turned back, leaning over to give her a quick kiss. "Good morning."

She smiled at the familiar lines of his back as he rose and headed the bathroom. "Good morning."

She was still a little buzzed with that Logan contact high when she grabbed her phone. It was early, but she already had one text message. She didn't recognize the number, but tapped it to open the message anyway.

_Itinerary selected. Call for details. -LK_

It took Veronica a moment to puzzle out that LK was LaKeesha, and then the rest clicked into place. They’d made actual plans for Sonia’s relocation to Texas. Veronica felt relieved, and a little sad, as she selected LaKeesha's number and hit send, only belatedly checking the time. Eight-thirty wasn’t too early to call someone right?

“Morning, LaKeesha, this is Veronica. Thanks for your text.”

“No problem,” LaKeesha answered, sounding not at all thrown by the time, and Veronica relaxed. “I knew you'd want to be kept in the loop.”

“Actually, I have news for you, too,” Veronica said. “Berto was arrested last night. He's in custody.”

“Excellent,” LaKeesha answered. “I'll pass that along to Sonia."

Veronica hesitated, but figured it didn't make sense to withhold information from LaKeesha or Sonia. She shifted on the bed, belatedly drawing the sheet up over herself in a misguided gesture of modesty, or maybe some sort of flimsy psychological armor. “Berto confronted me in the garage of my building last night. He's still looking for Sonia.”

“Are you okay?” LaKeesha asked.

“Yes, thanks. I'm fine.”

“I'm glad.” LaKeesha paused, then continued. “We're able to get Sonia on a bus that leaves tomorrow. She's agreed to move to the shelter in Houston. They've got a good program, and I think she'll do well there.”

“That's great," Veronica said, and she absolutely meant it. But-- "A bus?” Veronica repeated, incredulous. Because Sonia was eight months pregnant, and a day or maybe two on a bus sounded pretty awful.

“It's that or a train,” LaKeesha explained. “She's not supposed to fly right now.”

“And the train?” Veronica asked.

“We couldn't make the finances work. The price difference is considerable.”

“How much is a train ticket?”

“Well, a seat was around $500, and sleeper car was nearly $1,500.”

“Ah.” Veronica pushed up from the couch. Determined, now, because this sounded like a problem she and Logan might be able to solve. “I may have -- Can you hang on for a second?”

“Sure,” LaKeesha said, sounding baffled.

Veronica moved quickly to the bathroom, not bothering with clothing. “Logan,” she said tugging open the shower door, leaning back a bit as warm a plume of steam escaped.

He turned, holding a washcloth in his hand, and started to smirk when he saw her standing there, naked. “Hello. Another round?”

“Quit it,” she said, covering the speaker on her phone with her fingertip. “I just have a question -- Can we buy a train ticket for Sonia Rodriguez? It's $1,500.”

"Not where I thought this was going," he said with a rueful grin, "But sure.”

Veronica was a little surprised at how rapidly he agreed. “Really?”

Logan shrugged. “You want to buy a train ticket for a woman and her unborn child to get safely away from an abusive asshole? I’m in favor.”

“I-- yes. Okay." she agreed. And when he put it that way, she understood precisely why this particular situation would appeal to him.

He grinned. “Okay, then.”

She leaned up and kissed his damp lips, the spray from the showerhead deflecting off of his shoulder and hitting her cheek. “Thanks,” she said, wiping the water away as she closed the shower door. “LaKeesha?”

“Still here.”

“Yeah, can I cover the train ticket? I'd like Sonia to be comfortable if possible.”

“Uh…” LaKeesha sounded pretty surprised, but she rallied quickly. “Sure?”

“Great! Can you email me the parameters -- time, date, that kind of thing -- and I'll buy it online and send you the e-ticket.”

& & &

Veronica spent most of the rest of her Friday catching up on actual paying cases that she'd been ignoring in favor of her search for Sonia Rodriguez. She and Mac were a little giddy in the office, cranking a Spotify playlist of college-era songs and laughing along. 

It was relaxing, this bit of normality, and Veronica was gratified to see that Mac had bounced back from Berto's assault. In fact, Mac was all smiles as she left early to get ready for another date with Technology Guy. 

Veronica and Logan stayed home, bickering over which movie to watch via Netflix, until they settled on Memento. Logan was still a bit moody, falling silent beside her partway through the movie, clearly lost in his own thoughts. But she didn’t push, hoping he could feel comfort and support in her presence.

Saturday morning, Logan left before Veronica was all the way awake to go surfing with Dick, and arrived home tasting salty and looking a little more relaxed around 11. They weren't expected at her dad's until 5, and Veronica figured they could grab brunch, or maybe, possibly, stop by the animal rescue to look at dogs. She missed having a pet, and she knew the special, unconditional kind of love a dog provided would do wonders for Logan.

Weevil texted Veronica while Logan was still showering off the salt, and she stared at her phone in surprise. It was a multimedia message. Curious, she downloaded the picture -- and then she started to laugh.

He'd sent her what could _only_ be described as a selfie -- Weevil, giving that one-eyebrow-quirked look of skepticism the camera, with a sledgehammer slung over his shoulder, as he stood in front of his burnt out shop. He'd captioned it _taking your advice_.

Even Logan was amused when he emerged shirtless in jeans and leaned over the back of the couch to see what was so funny. Snickering, she promptly saved the picture and set it as Weevil’s contact picture. “I’m going to go see him,” she decided. “I want to take his temperature.”

Logan wrinkled his nose. “Different metaphor, please. I don’t need any sort of mental image involving you, Weevil, and a thermometer.” He pretended to shudder.

She tilted her head back to more effectively glare up at him, but his face was upside-down, and she grinned instead. “You want me to grab the corn while I’m out?” She'd promised her dad that she and Logan would supply side dishes.

Logan considered that for a moment, then decided. “I’ll come with you.”

As much as Veronica understood the impulse to stick close together after the scare with Berto, she was still surprised that he was volunteering to spend time with Weevil. Especially considering they’d nearly been at each other’s throats the last time they saw each other. “Um,” she said, “are you sure?”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Logan answered, clearly amused by her reluctance. 

“I’m not sure Weevil will be,” she muttered.

He disappeared briefly into the bedroom, and reemerged wearing a maroon henley and tucking his wallet into his back pocket. “Let’s go.” He skirted around the edge of the couch and offered his hand.

Veronica let him pull her up. “This should be fun,” she said as she followed him to the door.

She was only a little apprehensive when they stepped off the elevator and into the parking garage. Logan took her hand, and she wondered if it was for her benefit or his. They settled into his car without comment, and headed out, Veronica’s gaze lingering on the shadowed corner inside the garage door as they passed.

At Veronica's suggestion, they stopped at Krispy Kreme, and arrived at Weevil’s shop with a dozen doughnuts. As she suspected, it was more than just Weevil there knocking down walls -- she recognized Weevil’s uncle, as well as a couple of the PCHers. A slightly rusty, industrial-sized dumpster stood in the center of what had been the shop's parking lot; Logan parked the BMW as far away as possible without actually driving onto the curb separating Weevil's shop lot from the insurance agency next door.

Several of the guys dismantling the shop glanced over when they arrived; Weevil dropped his sledgehammer and headed over, taking out a bandana to wipe the sweat off of his face. He was shirtless, and Veronica took in the three-quarter sleeve of ink on his right arm, and the large tattoo along the side of his ribcage. He’d definitely gotten new ink in the past decade. As he drew closer, she saw a portrait of Valentina on his left pectoral and smiled.

“We come bearing gifts,” Veronica announced, holding out the box of doughnuts.

“Thanks, V,” Weevil said. He glanced past her and gave a quick nod. “Logan.”

“Weevil,” Logan answered.

Veronica felt her shoulders loosen just a bit. Maybe the boys would manage to play nice -- or at least avoid open threats and shouting. She would consider that a win.

Weevil turned back to her. “What brings you by, V? Besides the food.” He half-turned back to the building and raised his voice, “Hey, Ricky.”

One of the younger guys looked up, then jogged over to take the box with a quiet, “Thanks.”

"Hang on," Weevil said, opening the lid and grabbing a doughnut, before nodding at Ricky. He turned back to Veronica and took a bite of the doughnut, chewing thoughtfully. "Not bad."

Veronica watched Ricky head back to the shop, suddenly and sharply regretting not swiping a doughnut before handing them over. She heard Logan’s low chuckle and knew he’d read her mind. Ignoring him, she focused on Weevil. “It’s been a busy couple days, but I wanted to make sure the insurance adjuster called you.”

“Yeah, funny thing about that,” Weevil answered, head tilting a bit as he watched her, “apparently my lawyer scared the shit out of someone over there, and they wanted to make sure I was taken care of.”

“So they’re going to pay, no more talk of an arson defense?”

“The adjuster said I should get a check next week,” Weevil confirmed, then took another large bite.

“Hey, Weevs,” Logan interjected. Both Weevil and Veronica turned curious gazes his way, and Logan continued, “Mind if I…?” He gestured vaguely towards the demolition.

Weevil raised one eyebrow. “You want to get those soft hands on a sledgehammer?”

“I feel like an asshole just standing here,” Logan answered.

Weevil nodded his understanding. “Well, you _are_ an asshole,” he agreed, but the bitter, angry edge of their last encounter was missing.

Logan grinned in response. “That I am, Weevs,” he said. “But pounding concrete into dust as a demonstration of my brute strength," he gave an exaggerated shrug, palms turned up to the sky, "it appeals to me.” 

Weevil snorted and swept an arm toward the guys demolishing the building. “Knock yourself out.”

Logan touched Veronica’s elbow briefly before heading toward the burnt out building. She watched him, puzzled and a little impressed. And absently wondering if he’d take his shirt off to display the hard, muscled source of that brute strength while he worked.

Reaching the other guys, Logan nodded and said something she couldn't quite make out, then lifted the sledgehammer and tested its heft. He rolled his shoulders a couple of times to loosen up, then started to swing.

“You gonna stand there admiring your boy all day?” Weevil snarked. “Want Ricky to turn the hose on him?” 

Right. Weevil. The things she wanted to talk to Weevil about. Veronica turned back to him. “Seriously, Weevil, have you thought about MS-17?”

He crossed his arms, his amusement replaced by a flinty look warning her to back off. “Little bit, yeah.”

She paused, trying to determine the best way to get through to him. “Look, the cops are gone, the insurance company’s going to pay for you to rebuild, there’s a fundraiser for you guys--”

“Yeah,” Weevil interrupted, “speaking of that _fundraiser_ , I don’t think I know many people who can drop $5,000 without blinking.”

Shit. Veronica had donated anonymously, but it hadn’t occurred to her that Weevil would be interested enough to try to put things together based on size of the donation. 

Weevil lifted his chin. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

Veronica couldn't come up with anything that would make the donation okay. She understood the impulse to reject feeling like anyone’s charity case. "Weevil," she said, shrugging, "people care about you and want you to be okay. You and your family."

He glanced away, working his jaw. “Jade told me I should say thanks.”

Veronica could tell how much that cost him to say. “Please tell Jade that Logan and I were happy to kick in.” She paused, considering how hard to push. “Weevil, the thing with MS-17--”

“Don’t worry about it, V,” he interrupted.

She studied him, trying to read him. “Because you’ve decided no good could come of starting a gang war against them, so there’s literally nothing to worry about?” she offered brightly. Because -- _please_ let that be what he'd decided.

Weevil rolled his eyes.

She squeezed her fingers into fists and told herself escalating this into an argument wouldn't get Weevil to agree with her. In a carefully even tone, she said, “Weevil--”

“Seriously, V,” he said, his expression closed off. “Let it be.”

She knew enough to recognize a brick wall after she’d pounded her head into it five or six times. Usually, anyway. “Okay,” she said finally. “I hope you will, too.” 

He tilted his head in question.

“Let it be,” she said.

Weevil's mouth tightened, but he didn't reply. Instead, he hooked a thumb toward his shop and said, "Will you please get your little flyboy out of the way so us real men can get some work done?"

& & &

Veronica stepped out of the back door of her father’s rental house carrying three bottles of beer. She pulled the door closed behind her and turned to the strangely domestic site of her father and her boyfriend preparing food for the grill. 

It was weird, but maybe kind of great?

The backyard of Keith’s rental house was small and ringed by a six-foot stone wall, with several large shrubs and a single lemon tree providing some relief from the sun. Her father had worked on the garden beds at the foot of the small deck during his convalescence, and now insisted on grilling out at least every other weekend to use up the tomatoes and peppers he’d managed to grow.

Keith grinned up at her, proudly wearing his _Big Daddy on the Grill_ apron. “So, Veronica, ethically speaking, how do you want to handle the stuff for Sonia?” 

Logan looked up from the corn he was carefully and partially dehusking, and regarded them both with skepticism. “As a sworn officer of Navy," he said, in an affected, haughty tone, "I--”

“Oh, stuff it,” Veronica said, grinning over at him to soften her words. “It’s just a couple things to get Sonia started.” She descended the two steps into the yard and reached the table first, setting a beer bottle down near Logan, then placed hers in the center.

Logan ripped the silks free of the ear of corn and reached for the olive oil. “So a Target gift card, maybe a vacuum cleaner?” he guessed sarcastically. “Things that you, as an officer of the court, would feel ethically uncomfortable giving her yourself?”

Veronica’s glower was less humorous this time. Because she _did_ feel like she was walking a very shady line. Asking her dad to make some fake IDs and then passing them along to Sonia wasn’t really remaining on the sidelines for this particular infraction.

“Things that my father could prepare better than I could, given his years of experience,” she answered, taking a couple steps over to the grill to hand her father his beer. 

He accepted with a mock frown. “I think you just called me old.”

“ _Experienced_ , Dad," she said, moving back to the table to sit down opposite Logan. "Not old." Veronica grabbed her beer and took a quick sip, then watched Logan carefully smooth most of the corn husk back into place and tie it together with damp twine. She inhaled deeply as the steaks began to sizzle on the grill. “I love it when my menfolk cook for me.”

Logan smirked and tossed the ear of corn at her. 

“Hey!” she protested, placing it back with the others that were fully prepared. “You’re the one who said no one else could touch the corn.”

Logan rolled his eyes. "There are options other than preparing the corn for grilling and sitting on your pretty little ass." 

Keith ostentatiously cleared his throat, and Logan turned his attention back to the corn. 

"Your, you know, perfectly unremarkable ass," Logan corrected, then winked at her.

Inside the house, the phone rang. Keith grumbled as he hung the tongs from the edge of the grill.

"See?" Veronica said, with a pointed look his cellphone sitting on the table. "You should've listened to me and skipped the landline. It's so 2006."

"I'm old school, baby," Keith said, and disappeared inside to answer.

Veronica leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes and soaking up the early evening sun. The only sounds were the strange, papery protests of the corn husks as they were manhandled by Logan, plus a few nearby birds singing to each other.

It was peaceful. She loved this backyard, and would miss it when her father moved. Which she supposed meant she should savor the present instead of anticipating the future pain. Or something.

The screen door squealed open, then her father’s footsteps sounded on the small wooden deck. “That was Deputy Clayton,” he said, and Veronica knew from his tone that her fleeting moment of calm was over. 

She sighed and opened her eyes, turning to her father. “Norris Clayton?”

“Yes.” Keith stood at the edge of the small deck, his hands on his hips, and she guessed what he was going to say before he said it.

“Dammit,” she muttered.

“Yeah,” her dad continued, “Berto Flores was released.”

Logan stopped work on the corn. “He made bail?” he asked, incredulous. "I thought he could barely afford to pay you guys for a few hours' work?"

Keith shook his head, and Veronica glanced over at Logan. “Released on his own recognizance, I’m guessing,” she said. Because _of course_.

Logan’s eyebrows jumped up. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Veronica wished she could be as pissed as he was, or as surprised. But she assumed that Lamb had seen her name on the file as a complaining witness and worked his terrible form of magic. She and the Sheriff weren’t exactly in a good place, and it’s not like actual _justice_ was much of a concern of his.

Keith simply stalked back to the grill. 

Veronica watched Logan tear into the last ear of corn, ripping its husk almost all the way off before removing the silks with a vicious tug. Her dad muttered something and poked at the meat on the grill.

She pushed herself upright and hooked a thumb toward the house. “I’m gonna call Mac, let her know,” she said, but both men were too lost in their frustration to pay much attention.

Inside her dad’s house, she grabbed her phone from the kitchen counter and selected Mac's number. 

"Veronica?"

"Hey, Mac. Listen, I have news about Berto."

Mac's tone was flat when she asked, "What about him?"

And fuck Dan Lamb, anyway. "He's out of jail." Mac didn't answer. "Mac?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry," Veronica said, though she'd done just about all she could to avoid having Berto wandering the streets. 

"Not your fault," Mac answered. "I'll stay at Mark's tonight."

Veronica’s temper flared -- not at Mac, but at Berto, for making Mac feel unsafe and maybe stalked. For making Veronica herself feel, if not unsafe, at least _nervous_ in her own damn building.

"You don't--" Veronica stopped herself, because maybe she and Mac _did_ need to alter their lives a little bit because of Berto, but it was nothing compared to what Sonia had to do. "Yeah,” she said instead. “Be careful, okay?"

Veronica hung up and gently placed her phone back on the counter. She stared at it for a long moment, thinking about Berto and ways to neutralize him as a threat. 

Unable to come up with a decent solution to that problem, Veronica tabled it, and headed back outside to have a leisurely Saturday dinner with her menfolk.

& & &

Veronica and Mac made it up to LA in less than two hours, which wouldn't too bad for a weekday, but kind of sucked for a Sunday morning. The drive had probably _seemed_ longer, because Veronica spent an inordinate amount of time checking her mirrors to make sure she didn’t see the same car or truck too many times. Berto didn’t have a car of his own, but she no longer assumed he _wouldn’t_ steal a car to tail her.

Once in LA, she took something of a circuitous route -- more due to getting the tiniest bit lost than any evasive driving skills. The upside was that she knew for sure they weren’t being followed by the time they located Union Station. They found a parking garage and walked over, squinting in the sun and still a little disoriented in this unfamiliar part of LA. 

Mac had an envelope full of parting gifts created by Keith tucked into her bag, and Veronica had an actual Target gift card for Sonia, plus an anonymous, encrypted email account for her to contact Veronica in case of an emergency. Once inside the surprisingly well-appointed train station, they stopped to gawk a little at the high ceilings and art deco interior. Eventually, Veronica spotted LaKeesha, and then Sonia, seated in plush leather seats in the waiting area.

“Over there,” she told Mac, who was gazing up at the high ceilings and the large windows. 

Mac glanced at Veronica, “Did you know this place was so gorgeous?”

Veronica shook her head, and headed toward LaKeesha and Sonia, Mac trailing behind.

Sonia spotted them first, pushing herself upright with a struggle. She gave Veronica a big hug. “Thank you for coming.”

Veronica grinned, patting Sonia on the back. “Of course.” She pulled back and gestured to Mac. “This is Mac, my associate. Mac, this is Sonia and LaKeesha.”

Mac shook their hands, still a little shy with new people. “Glad to meet you both.”

“Thank you for your help, too, Mac,” Sonia said.

Mac’s cheeks flushed a light pink. “It was mostly her,” she said, hooking a thumb at Veronica. 

LaKeesha was watching Mac closely. “Berto attacked you?”

Sonia’s eyes widened, “Oh, I’m sorry -- I didn’t make the connection.” She stepped closer and wrapped a startled Mac in a hug. “I'm sorry,” she murmured.

“Uh,” Mac stuttered. “I’m okay, thanks.” She patted Sonia’s back awkwardly.

Veronica and LaKeesha exchanged amused looks. Once Sonia released Mac, she gestured at the small cafe in the corner. “We have a little time before my train.”

When the others agreed, Sonia smiled. Veronica was relieved to see Sonia's irrepressible cheer was starting to resurface, even in such a stressful situation. 

LaKeesha pulled Sonia’s large bag along, and they relocated to a small tabletop. The hour passed quickly, inane stories and amusement, as LaKeesha, Mac, and Veronica worked to keep Sonia’s spirits up. She wasn’t _sad_ , exactly, but she was clearly nervous, and about to leave her makeshift family behind to embark on a 20-hour journey to an entirely new state, where she would be met by strangers and would try to build a new life.

As the first boarding call for her train was announced, Sonia reached out and clasped one of Veronica’s and LaKeesha’s hands in each of hers. “I want to thank you,” she said, “I am scared, but I feel also,” she shrugged, struggling to verbalize it, “maybe a little excited.” This time, her smile was that same incandescent one that reminded Veronica of Lilly. 

LaKeesha nodded and cleared her throat. Her voice was a little shaky when she said, “I’m happy you decided to go, but I’m really going to miss you.”

Veronica nodded her agreement. “Sonia, do you want me to let Cristina know you’re safe and out of state? I won’t tell her where, obviously, but she was concerned when I talked to her.”

“Yes, please.” Sonia nodded, and looked to LaKeesha. “Can you tell my aunt?”

“Of course,” LaKeesha agreed, as a muffled boarding annoucement sounded over the loudspeakers. She glanced up at the large status board; Sonia’s train was boarding. 

Sonia moved to stand, and the other three women followed suit. They made their way to the escalator that would take Sonia down to the boarding platform, and stopped.

Mac spoke first. “There’s some, uh,” she waved a hand in the air, “stuff in here for you. To help.”

Sonia gave the manilla envelope in Mac's hand a strange look, but accepted it and pushed it into her oversized purse. “Thank you.”

Veronica pulled out a smaller envelope and handed it over. “Some stuff in here, too,” she stepped closer and gave Sonia a hug, lowering her voice so only Sonia could hear, “and an email address for emergencies only, okay?”

Sonia drew back and nodded, tears in her eyes but not yet overflowing, “Okay. Thank you, Veronica.”

Veronica's voice caught a little when she answered, "Any time, Sonia."

LaKeesha and Sonia hugged for a long time, and both women were struggling for composure when they separated. LaKeesha squeezed Sonia’s hand. “Are you ready?”

Tears tracked down Sonia’s cheeks, but she was smiling. “No,” she answered truthfully. “But I’ll go.”

& & &

When they arrived back in Neptune, Veronica dropped Mac at Mark's place, and then headed home, her pulse speeding up as she pulled into the garage. She stopped just inside the gate and waited until it closed fully behind her before she continued down the ramp to park.

She hoped she wouldn't need to do that very much longer.

When she opened the door to the condo, she called out, "Hey." 

No answer. 

She dropped her bag on the table in the entryway, pausing only to fish her phone out before continuing into the living room. It was definitely too quiet for Logan to be home, and sure enough, she found a handwritten note on the kitchen countertop.

_Errands. Back in time for dinner, don't worry._  
 _L_

Dinner with Wallace and Mac, she remembered, though she was pretty sure Mac would cancel to spend time with Mark instead. Veronica traced Logan’s loopy _L_ , then pushed the note away and headed for the living room, sinking into the world's most comfortable couch and closing her eyes. 

She let her mind drift for a bit, just unwinding from a particularly challenging couple of weeks. But she couldn't stop thinking about Berto, about the fact that he was still somewhere in Neptune or its environs, could still be working as a painter just across the street, while she and Mac were paranoid about guys of a certain build, and Sonia was on a train somewhere in Arizona by now.

That just wasn't going to work for Veronica. 

She discounted the obviously unworkable solutions, and focused on more attainable goals. Eventually, she sat up and pulled her laptop off the coffee table and onto her lap. She tapped a finger on the trackpad while it booted, impatient, and then navigated to one of the burner email accounts that Mac had set up for them. 

This particular account would deliver email to the addressee only after routing it through several countries and at least one anonymizer. 

Veronica looked up the personal email addresses of Patrick Flanagan and composed a message quickly:

_Dear Mr. Flanagan,_

_I am writing to make sure you’re aware of your employee Roberto Flores’ history of violence and criminal behavior. On Tuesday, Berto attacked a woman in the stairwell of an office building (video and restraining order attached); on Thursday, Berto broke into the same office building (video attached). Last night, Berto was arrested by the police for his actions (police report attached). I’m confident you don’t want this kind of person as an employee, and would not like being the subject of a Martina Vasquez investigative report._

Veronica felt the slightest bit conflicted about trying to get Berto fired. It might be a just outcome, but the means to achieve it seemed a little... _icky_. 

But Sonia was right -- it wasn’t fair that he was the aggressor, and she was stuck with all the consequences. 

The trepidation that Veronica could hear in Mac's voice? That wasn't fair, either. 

Plus, Veronica didn’t relish the idea of bumping into Berto outside of her building while he painted across the street. She didn’t even want to imagine the result if _Logan_ were the one to happen across Berto. If he got fired, hopefully he would disappear back to Ceres or somewhere to find work.

Maybe it was time for some of Berto's actions to come back and bite him. Nothing in her email was untrue or slanderous.

“Karma’s a bitch,” she murmured. Then she took a breath and hit _Send_.

& & &

Veronica heard the front door open, then close, and tilted partway out of the closet. “Hey,” she called. “I’m in here.”

Logan stepped into the bedroom and stopped, leaning against the bureau to watch her as she rifled through clothing options in their spacious closet. Veronica tossed a smile over her shoulder. “Guess who bailed on us.”

“Mac,” he answered immediately.

Veronica grinned at a deep red blouse and pulled it off the hanger. “Got it in one. I guess things are going well with Technology Guy.” 

Veronica was actually looking forward to a fun, distracting dinner with some of her favorite people and a generous helping of wine. Saying goodbye to Sonia had been strangely affecting, considering she’d only actually known her a few days. Plus Veronica still wasn't sure whether her efforts to get Berto fired would work. Or whether he’d _leave Neptune_ even if he were fired.

Definitely she could use wine and excellent company.

“We’re still meeting Wallace, though?” Logan asked.

“Yup. I don’t _think_ he’s bringing a plus-one to dinner,”  She slipped the shirt on, then pulled her hair free, “but you never know with Wallace.”

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game,” Logan said dryly.

She altered her path toward the bed to swing past him for a quick kiss. “What’s wrong?” she asked. 

“Look, I don’t want you to make a big thing out of this, okay?”

Veronica narrowed her eyes at him, instantly on alert. “Good big thing or bad big thing?”

Logan shrugged. “Just -- I know I said we should make decisions together, including the money stuff.”

Veronica sat down hard on the bed, not sure what was coming next, but knowing she needed to brace herself for it. “Logan?”

“I spent a lot of money today, kind of a spur of the moment thing while you were in LA,” he admitted, watching her carefully. “But I think you’ll be okay with it. I’m just -- I should’ve waited to talk to you first.”

She made herself inhale, exhale, inhale. “What did you buy?” she asked, her tone impressively flat. She was picturing a yacht, or another, faster car, or maybe one of those prop planes he liked to take out some weekends. _It’s fine_ , she told herself. _He can be irresponsible with his money. With our money_ , she corrected herself, because she was trying to internalize the concept. 

“Buy?” Logan’s brow furrowed for a moment. “Oh, no, it’s -- I donated. To the shelter.”

Veronica shook her head, trying to untangle what he was saying. Because this conversation had just gone in a direction she was not expecting. “The shelter in LA? The domestic violence shelter?”

“Yeah.” He crossed to the bed and sat down beside her, nudging her with his thigh. “I did a lot of reading on the shelter system when you were seeing Sonia off. I had no idea that kind of…” he paused, his hand spinning in the air as he searched for words, “safety net was out there. They do good work.”

“They do,” she agreed, purposefully neutral so he’d keep talking. Because as much as she admired the mission of the shelters, she was still trying to make this conversation with Logan make sense -- he was _apologizing_ for donating money?

Veronica agreed with his assessment of the shelters wholeheartedly. And before this week, she’d had no idea just how tenuous their funding was, how reliant they were on the goodwill of large corporations and independent donors to fund counseling and free legal help and even _food_ for the women and children they accepted.

Logan reached for her hand, tangling his fingers with hers. “Not that everyone would feel comfortable going into that kind of environment. I’m sure some women, some people would rather…” He stopped, waved that thought away. “But it’s great that it’s there,” he shrugged, tracing nonsense on the back of her hand. “For women, and -- and kids who need it.”

“Oh, Logan,” she breathed, leaning into him. Fucking Aaron Echolls. The scars he’d left on Logan -- Veronica wished terrible, awful things on Aaron Echolls’ eternal soul, assuming he even had one. “I’m glad you donated,” she said, instead of voicing her dark thoughts about his father.

Logan tensed slightly. “I should have talked to you first, though,” he said. “I, uh… I donated a hundred thousand dollars.” Veronica stared at him, her mouth dropped open in a surprised “O.” Logan winced at her reaction. “Yeah. Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Don’t _apologize_!” she ordered, still stunned. “A hundred _thousand_ dollars?”

He looked sheepish. “Yes.”

Veronica all but tackled him, pinning him to the mattress as she straddled his body, so overwhelmed by the way his mind worked sometimes. She kissed the hell out of him, greedily swallowing the surprised noises he made, laughing against his mouth when his hands landed on her ass and squeezed. “That,” she said, grinning down at him from inches away, her breath a bit unsteady, “is awesome. _You’re_ awesome.”

Relief blossomed on his face, followed closely by that familiar smug smirk. Goddamnit, she shouldn’t get so turned on by his arrogance -- there was _clearly_ something wrong with her. “We have a little time before we have to leave,” she said, leaning down to press kisses along his jaw.

“Nope,” Logan said, and then promptly contradicted himself by initiating another kiss. Too soon, he dropped his head back to the bed, his hands moving up to encircle her biceps and gently tilt her up and away from him. “Up,” he ordered. “You have to change.”

Veronica sat up, straddling his thighs. “Excuse me?” She crossed her arms and glared down at him.

Running a finger along the inseam of her jeans, Logan lifted an eyebrow. “I brought you a gift.”

Suspicious now, she scanned the bedroom. “Oh, yeah?”

He grabbed her by the hips and helped her to her feet, then bounced upright and disappeared into the living room. Veronica started to follow, but he was back almost as soon as he’d left, holding a nondescript purple gift bag. “For you,” he said, as he held it out to her with a flourish.

She wrinkled her nose, suspicious now. “It’s not my birthday. It’s not any sort of anniversary. It’s not a holiday.”

Logan rolled his eyes at her. “Or you could just open it.”

She tested the heft of the bag; it was heavy enough to rule out lingerie, but maybe not, say, handcuffs? One never knew what to expect from Logan Echolls.

“Okay,” she said, and pulled out… a box of what looked to be incredibly fancy chocolates, imported from Switzerland. She smiled, but was still a little confused. “Are we watching _Forrest Gump_ later? Is this a metaphor for something?”

With an exasperated sigh, Logan gestured at the bag. “There’s another thing.”

She peered into the gift bag and saw a small red satin drawstring pouch. Puzzled, she pulled that out and glanced over at him.

He looked downright mischievous. “Keep opening.”

She opened the pouch and fished out black -- silk stockings. Veronica started to laugh. Chocolate and silk stockings. Of course. “Oh, I see how it is, Sailor.” She moved closer, smirking up at him. “You want me to prance around in these all night.”

“Hell, yes,” Logan answered emphatically, grinning right back down at her with a slightly predatory excitement underlying his amusement. 

She watched him closely, noting desire and adoration for her clear in those gorgeous brown eyes. And if he was able to bring her these silly gifts, to remember something related to the war games exercises with humor instead of grief, she knew he was beginning to make his peace with Gonzo’s death.

She felt some of her worry for him, for his wellbeing, start to ease, and grinned back at him. “I don’t think I have garters,” she said, running through a mental list of her lingerie options, surprised at her own disappointment.

Logan smirked at her, and slowly pulled a black garter belt from his pants pocket. “I always come prepared.” He jerked his eyebrows up once, then let the garter belt dangle from his middle finger.

Honestly, she was a little bit turned on, but she still snickered. “You were pretty confident your little confession about donating would go well, weren’t you?”

“I have every confidence in your forgiving nature,” he answered promptly.

She pretended to glare at him. “There’s no need to be sarcastic.” Veronica held out a hand for the garter belt, which he carefully laid on her palm, sliding one finger along the inside of her wrist until she shuddered.

“Do you have any requests for which skirt I’m supposed to wear with these?”

“Something short,” he answered, quickly and oh-so-predictably. 

She couldn’t help but grin back at him. “Why do I even ask the question?” she wondered, turning back to the closet. She knew she had a relatively short black number in there somewhere. “You’re impossible,” she told him.

“But you love me anyway,” he called after her.

Veronica smiled. 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

>  **END NOTES** :  
> If you or someone you know needs help, please know there are resources available for you. In the U.S., you can contact RAINN: at 800.656.HOPE, or online at http://www.rainn.org/get-help/national-sexual-assault-online-hotline
> 
> Logan’s inspirational quote is: “War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse.” John Stuart Mill.
> 
> MS-17 is based on historical summaries of the rather terrifying real-life gang, MS-13.
> 
> Story written March 21, 2014 - May 21, 2014.
> 
> Comments and feedback cherished here; machaswicket [AT] outlook.com; or machaswicket.tumblr.com


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